Beautiful Darkness / Jolies Ténèbres by Fabien Vehlmann & Kerascoët
A dark fairy tale about surviving the human experience
Aurora’s having a tea party with Hector, the prince she’s been dreaming about, when a sudden deluge forces them to take shelter elsewhere. They emerge from the skull of a dead girl into the woods at night, and find themselves amongst a crowd of tiny people, all of whom are milling about. Aurora quickly takes charge of the situation, and at first things seem to be going well for most of her friends. Despite a few injuries and deaths and a lot of hunger, they forage successfully, and befriend a mouse that lives in the neighborhood. But as time goes by, more and more of the little people begin to lose hope, turning against one another in brutal ways.
Beautiful Darkness is a harrowing look at the human psyche and the darkness that hides behind the routine politeness and meaningless kindness of civilized society. The sweet faces and bright leaves of Kerascoet’s joyful watercolors only serve to highlight the evil which dwells beneath, as characters allow their pettiness, greed, and jealousy to take over. Beautiful Darkness presents a bleak allegory on the human condition; Kerascoet and Vehlman’s work is a searing condemnation of our vast capacity for evil writ tiny.
Now available in English from Drawn & Quarterly | pdf preview
One of the darkest, darkest of fairy tale I’ve ever read. Loved it! So glad to see it translated in english. Will be easy to share with english speaking friends.
I read this the other day, and it is an amazing mixture of delightful drawings with CREEPY, DARK, AND TERRIFYING EVENTS. You should go read it.
Post-Nogitsune, Stiles finds out via camera footage an unlikely person has been keeping watch over him.
[also on the a03]
The first night after they excise the Nogitsune from Stiles’ body, he doesn’t sleep. Stiles shivers fitfully, falling between hazy memories of hurting people, hurting his friends, dark rooms and long hallways, screams, iron bars and fire. John holds his son close, grateful he’s alive, wipes the sweat from Stiles’ brow, clutching him close to his chest until Stiles falls into a restless sleep. Stiles’ eyes still twitch underneath his eyelids, and his body writhes like he’s in pain, but there’s not much John can do aside from hold him. It’s not unlike ten years ago when a seven year old Stiles crawled into his bed after Claudia’s death, trying to keep the nightmares at bay.
Unfortunately a few nights later John is on the night shift again, and he can’t stay, even though he wants to. “I’ll be fine, Dad, just go,” Stiles says. He still looks too pale, drawn, the skin dark around his eyes, but it’s nowhere near that hollow, empty look his body had when he was carrying the Nogitsune inside. Stiles is healing. Slowly.
"Just call me if you need anything, okay?" John says, and after a hug, he leaves in the cruiser.
It’s a quiet night, not a bad patrol, just breaking up some would-be exhibitionist teens at the lookout point near the Preserve; nothing compared to the chaos of the previous weeks. It’s nearing 2 a.m. when John’s cell phone beeps, and his heart suddenly starts pounding when he sees the security system on his home has gone off. Is Stiles sleepwalking again? Worry and fear spike through him, and John quickly clicks to the camera footage. The worry changes to confusion when he spots Stiles sprawled out in his bed, eyes closed in the semblance of the weary thing that passes for sleep nowadays. Stiles is safe. So why did the alarm go off?
John gets his answer when he sees the window opening and a figure stepping through. “Damnnit,” he curses, and turns the engine on the cruiser, intending to hightail it back home, but, wait— is that Derek Hale?
Derek slips into the room quietly, and doesn’t seem to do anything other than watch Stiles sleep for a few moments, a frown lingering on his face as he watches Stiles toss and turn.
John doesn’t know what this is; what Derek is doing in Stiles’ bedroom, watching him sleep, and a fierce wave of protectiveness rushes over him, because this is Stiles, his son, and he only just got him back—
What is he doing? Derek is slowly approaching the bed, like he’s made his mind up about something, and then he cautiously places a hand on Stiles’ arm. Trails of black run slowly up Derek’s arm, from Stiles to him, Derek’s face contorting in a spasm of pain. Stiles’ face goes from tense to relaxed, his whole body sinking back into the bed, the chest that was heaving with erratic breaths before, now slowing to an even, calm pace.
Oh, John thinks.
I HAVE A BURNING NEED FOR—
"Kira taught me how to hashtag," said Derek, deliberately casual.
It was the second time Derek brought up his popular instagram account, the first time being his very excited announcement that he was selected to be in an instagram contest that Scott is 80% sure Stiles made up to mock Derek with.
100% sure because Scott was with Stiles last night when they came up with @InstagramContestForSeriousPhotographersofBeaconHills
It was funny at first because no one realises how serious Derek is about his PHOTOGRAPHY, calls it his HOBBY, and talks about it with an air of humble GENUINE modesty, much to Scott’s horror and dawning realisation, stresses that NO ONE CAN TELL DEREK THAT THE CONTEST IS FAKE.
So when Lydia tries to honey people only like your selfies because you’re h— Scott drags Lydia away and gets Stiles to RUN INTERFERENCE (which is really easy because he asks Derek, again, the merits of Amaro vs. Rise filter).
Stiles totally does not understand why Scott is freaking out, why Scott doesn’t just tell Derek THE TRUTH instead of getting him to stay up with him to create 84 instagram accounts to ENTER INTO THE CONTEST. But then Derek shyly asks Stiles HIS OPINION on which of these photos of WOLF BABIES he took at the LOCAL WOLF SANCTUARY is better for the contest, Stiles throws his hands in the air and sits down on the lumpy loft couch, entire side pressed against Derek, and goes through the album.
Derek posts the ad because he’s desperate.
It’s a primal sort of desperation; he feels like a cornered rat with a shoe coming down on his head. Every time someone calls he gets to hear “I’m just worried”. From his parents, his Nana, his aunts and uncles, his friends, his coworkers - but “I’m just worried” isn’t what drives him to Craigslist.
It’s his sisters.
Laura and Cora go above and beyond “I’m just worried”. Derek has been duped into four blind dates in the past six months. One ended with Derek breaking up a fight between his date and a bartender, then letting her throw up into a salad bowl in his apartment because he couldn’t remember where she lived and she wouldn’t tell him. She spent a good chunk of the night crying about a cat she had when she was nine, and how it got hit by a snowmobile her older brother was driving.
It was a fun time for everyone.
i just needed dispatcher!derek and stiles calling into the sheriff’s dept to talk to the dispatcher bc he was lonely, and subsequently, falling for derek’s voice.
“Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department,” an unfamiliar male voice answers. Stiles pulls the cell phone away from his ear and stares at it like he accidentally dialed the wrong number. “Hello?” The man’s voice is annoyed, and then the line goes dead.
Stiles hits redial immediately. “Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department,” the same voice says, more annoyed than before.
“You’re not Edna,” Stiles says. “Edna’s the evening dispatcher, where’s Edna?”
“Stiles Stilinski. The better question is, who are you?”
“My dad doesn’t work with a Derek Hale. I know everyone who works in that department, and I’d remember a Derek Hale.”
“You’re the sheriff’s son?” Derek asks.
Stiles grins, despite the fact that he’s on the phone. “So, you’ve heard of me?”
“I wouldn’t be proud of that fact.”
Stiles huffs and hangs up.
The next night, he calls again. The same Derek Hale answers the phone.
“Where is Edna?”
“She’s out of town for awhile.”
“So, you’re a temp?”
“I’m a deputy.”
Stiles frowns. “I don’t remember seeing you around.”
“I’m new. Is there anything I can actually help you with?” Derek’s irritation is evident through the line.
This time, Derek hangs up.
Stiles calls two nights later, and ignores the way his stomach flips when Derek’s voice comes over the line. “What are you doing?”
Derek sighs. “What do you want, Stiles?”
“Edna used to read me the word from her word of the day calendar.” Derek remains silent. “Well? What’s the word? Unless you rearranged her desk.”
There’s some shuffling on the other line. “Suidefenestration. It means – “
“To kill yourself by throwing yourself out of a window.”
Derek grunts. “How did you know that?”
“Uh, duh? I took Latin as an undergrad, four years. I learned a word or two. Did you not know what it meant?”
“I thought you were in high school.”
“Grad school, dude.” Stiles laughs, and hangs up.
The next time Stiles calls, he opens with, “Has my dad been eating donuts? Because either it’s that, he somehow got freaky with a chalkboard, or he’s becoming a coke addict. I’m not sure which is more disturbing.”
“I don’t spend my time monitoring the Sheriff’s diet.” Derek doesn’t bother to sound polite or nice. Stiles thinks that maybe he should complain and that the BHSD should hire a better dispatcher. But Stiles is too selfish for that.
“Go look in his office.”
“I’m not going to snoop in my superior’s office!”
“Please,” Stiles begs. “Derek, pleasepleaseplease.”
“How old are you again? Grad school, really?”
“You’re just sad that you’re not this awesome.”
a teen wolf au in which everyone is an android
"I think it’s kinda cute." Kate props a hand on her hip and peers through the observation glass at Sc077’s testing chamber. "Look at him with his big creepy robot eyes and his little bugs in the code. Adorable."
"This is more than bugs, Katherine." Allison’s executive processors start calculating escape routes whenever Dr. Gerard’s voice sounds like that. "Watch."
Sc077 asked her to call him Scott yesterday. Allison does, and wipes it from her memory before it’s logged as data. She carefully doesn’t think about why. Scott is entering the immersion program now, making his way towards his objective with careful, measured uses of his special enhancements for strength and speed. Allison likes watching him. She likes that her enhanced eyes are the only ones in the room that can track his movements.
The program wavers. In Scott’s path is a human child, injured. Allison’s eyes narrow. They’ve done this same experiment with her; she preformed adequately. She called emergency services for the child without slowing her pace.
Scott stops. He bends down, reaches out a hand to the child. She can sense him modulating his voice, soft and calm and with the motherhood harmonics from their sound templates. Allison glances at Gerard. That’s wrong. Scott has done something wrong.
Kate and Gerard turn away from the screen as the program terminates.
"I knew Alan’s stupid Synthetic Soul program was shit. This is why we should keep programmers within the family," Kate comments. "Is the other one fucking up too?"
"See for yourself." The other observation wall clears. This one’s call number is very long, St0186529374. Scot calls him Stiles. Allison doesn’t know why. He’s sitting at a terminal, plugged into a data field. Allison watches the screen; logic sets. Analysis, inference and synthesis. She performs well on those but after roughly 90 minutes finds her attention sort of…wandering.
Stiles is fast, faster than Allison is at least. His fingers dance over the input keys, check check clear, check check clear.
"Watch this." Gerard alters the program from his terminal. Allison catches a glimpse of it as it goes past, and cross-references with her web uplink. That’s not a logic set. Her processors don’t return an answer for it.
In the room, Stiles frowns. His fingers dance; hesitate; try again. Check. Check. Check check check check check check—
"Oh good, you broke it," Kate starts—
The center of Stiles’ left eye sparks, just a flash, and then the program dings. Clear.
"What the fuck?" Kate leans over the screen. "He doesn’t have the programming for that. Whatever that was."
"Insight. Lateral thinking. Inspiration.” Gerard’s voice is doing the thing again. Allison stands very still. “And the alpha model? Compassion. Empathy. Nurturing. This is more than mere bugs in the code, Katherine. We have two bona fide ghosts in the machine.”
As one, they turn to look at Allison. For some reason her homeostasis maintenance systems start functioning at heightened levels. She thinks she might be trying to sweat.
"May I be of service?" she asks, standard phrase, basic programming, no understanding of what is going on other than that she might be required.
Kate grins. “At least our Argent models are still working right.”
"Indeed." Gerard is still watching her. Allison meets his gaze with eyes she knows are flat and lifeless as any other machine’s, and very carefully doesn’t think about the roof of the facility, the wind in her hair, the clear ‘off-limits, you may not enter’ note in her programming. She tries very hard to keep out of her mind the knowledge that she has done what not even Scott and Stiles have yet managed to do:
SO HOW MANY HUMAN ORGANS DO I NEED TO COLLECT TO MAKE THIS TURN INTO A FULL FIC?
After that fateful Triwizard Tournament, each school settled back into their own. Unknowingly, students across all three schools made almost the exact same jokes about the obvious superiority of their own alma mater. Beauxbatons giggled about drafty castles and draftier boats. Students at Durmstrang wondered loudly at the lack of Dark Arts at both schools: did teachers expect the rest of the world to just say ‘oh, you never learned dueling? Well alright then I suppose we’ll just have to shake hands.’ Although, knowing Hogwarts, they probably did expect that. And of course Hogwarts rolled their eyes at the silliness of Beauxbatons and frowned at the harshness of Durmstrang.
Upon returning home, every student gave themselves a smug little pat on the back for being lucky enough to go to their school.
But despite themselves, each school found itself a little changed.
The next year, Beauxbatons had statues standing sentry in their halls. Not suits of armor of course, how gauche. The statues at Beauxbaton were dressed in only the most lavish of gowns. But still, Madame Olympe admitted grudgingly, that kind of defense hadn’t occurred to her forebearers. And, while the statues might have been richly dressed, they hid enough strength to withstand even the cruelest of curses. Beauty and strength need not be mutually exclusive, after all, as any Beauxbatons student knows.
Eventually the statues simply became part of the landscape of Beauxbatons, adding flourish to the classrooms and dignity to their Great Hall. Eventually, students forgot that they hadn’t always been there - that they had been ideas taken from other schools and other countries. Just as Hogwarts students remain oblivious to how Godric Gryffindor got the idea for moving staircases when he visited Adalard Papillonlisse (whose daughter would go on to found Beauxbatons). Just as Durmstrang has forgotten how Harfang Munter learned several of his more martial forms of magic from students of Mahoutokoro.
Whether or not people want to admit it, whether or not they even know, no man is an island. You cannot be in this world without being a part of it, without being affected by all the other parts of this world. That’s especially true for schools.
(even Oahu’s Māmaku Kaiao Kehan, which is on an island)
(written and submitted by rainbowrites, who makes my day every time they submit, because their snapshots of the magical world feel so true to canon, and yet they’re never afraid to go beyond it a little bit, and to weave in deeper meanings and clever parallels.)
It was clear that while Amos was the head of the household, Mrs. Diggory was the neck: wherever she turned, so did her husband.
When fate snatched away her eldest child, the funeral-goers whispered that she seemed beyond tears. Pale and drawn next to the hopeless and sobbing Mr. Diggory, she seemed ethereal, almost without compassion.
But behind closed doors she wept, like the drops of green and silver blood running through her veins never permitted her to do publicly.
That was the last time she allowed herself to let go like that. And so, for many years, the youngest Diggory never saw his mother cry.
When the war brought chaos to her doorstep (The Burrow wasn’t the only wizarding house burnt that night in Ottery St. Catchpole), the once-dormant Slytherin blood once again flamed through Mrs. Diggory and linked with the legacy of Hufflepuff that she carried. Amos had long ago given up, wilted at the death of the only person he had truly cared for, so his wife fought for both of them.
In the memory of the boy who had fallen with their names on his lips.
And so, when the time came to give away her last child to the institution where her firstborn had been killed nine years earlier, other parents whispered that Mrs. Diggory seemed beyond tears. It was only when she bent to kiss him goodbye that the last Diggory boy tasted salt on his mother’s cheeks.
And if you looked closely you could see, running their course around the premature lines etched in Mrs. Diggory’s skin, little rivulets sparkling silver in the station’s light.
(written and submitted by thecompleteillustrated. They note that the idea was taken from this line in Goblet of Fire: “Mr Diggory sobbed through most of the interview. Mrs Diggory’s grief seemed to be beyond tears." In other words, they took one small line and transformed it into a wonderful character piece, painting a complex, moving, and very human picture. I love love love this. Fic-wise, there are few things more satisfying than seeing minor or one-note characters materialize as full and real people, and here thecompleteillustrated does this beautifully.)
a college au where derek is a professor living in a house next door to students stiles and scott.
a little ficlet for everyone, bc everyone seems so down and despondant about the fandom happenings as of late. i can’t draw, but i can write to a certain degree, so…this is my way of spreading positivity and happiness to y’all <3
The house would have to do. It was small and nice, but right on the edge of the university in a neighborhood of faculty, students, and staff. He could walk to work. The rent was cheap, and on his starting salary, it would have to do. Like hell if Derek was getting a roommate.
Derek is sitting in a rickety rocking chair on the front porch when a U-Haul pulls into the driveway next door. A beat up blue Jeep follows and then a dirt bike. “Great,” Derek mutters to himself. The universe must really hate him. Undergrads and a fucking dirtbike.
The one in the Jeep all but falls out of the driver’s side and waves at Derek when he sees him. “Howdy, neighbor! Dude, we have a neighbor,” he tells Dirtbike boy with a slap to the chest.
Derek goes inside without a wave or a word.
Derek is lacing up his shoes on the front porch a little after 6am. He wants to explore the neighborhood, map out a good training route, and maybe find an easy route for his lazy days. He’s starting up the running app on his phone when the door opens next door and someone steps onto the porch. Derek doesn’t look up.
“Morning, Professor Hale,” a chipper voice calls. Derek glances up, and it’s Jeep guy. Derek studies him, trying to figure out if he’s in one of his classes without him realizing it. “My friend Lydia is in your Medieval women, religion, and sexuality grad seminar.” Lydia, the petite redhead in the front who tries to argue with him about everything. At least it’s better than the busty blonde who sits beside him and eyefucks him.
“Ah, Lydia,” Derek replies with a smile. “She’s an interesting student.”
The guy snorts and takes a sip of his coffee. “Oh, she’s interesting all right. I’m Stiles, by the way. Masters in forensic science, so no chance I’ll show up in one of your classes.”
“Small miracles,” Derek deadpans, and Stiles throws his head back and laughs. Derek notices how smooth his skin looks, and when Stiles looks at him again, his amber eyes are shining. Derek shakes his head – what the fuck was he thinking?
“All your secrets are safe with me,” Stiles says. “I mean, I could make a fortune in blackmail to your students. How you go to bed at like 11, go running at 6 am, carry groceries in reusable cloth bags, drive a Camaro. Quality.”
Derek rolls his eyes. “Have a good day, Stiles,” Derek says as he takes off running down the tree-covered street. He sprints, pushing himself harder to try and dispel the buzzing beneath his skin.
Derek’s asleep. Well, Derek was asleep before loud yelling and music woke him up. He tugs a pair gym shorts over his underwear and storms onto the back porch. Next door, Stiles and Scott are yelling and laughing with a group of guys.
“Can you keep it down?” Derek growls. “Some people are trying to sleep.”
“Dude, it’s 11 o’clock,” someone says. “Who goes to sleep this early?”
“Sorry,” Stiles says. “We’ll keep it down.” Derek hears him trying to get the others to turn down the music and be quiet.
“Stiles, you didn’t tell me next-door-professor was a total fucking hottie,” another guy says. Derek sighs and walks back into his house, slamming the door.
Move A Mountain | zainclaw | E | 68,991 words | soundtrack | art
Stiles goes camping with his friends in New Mexico after graduation where they befriend a biker gang led by Derek: a guy whom Stiles can’t decide if he will be either relieved or devastated to never see again once their week is up.
"You better hold on," Derek advises. He turns his head slightly to the side, glancing at him over his shoulder. "I don’t want to get in trouble if you get hurt."
"Good idea," Stiles agrees, having to raise his voice in order to be heard over the loud engine. "My dad might press charges. Did I mention he’s the sheriff back home?"
"Maybe we should call this off."
no but can i just get a v cute fic of the sheriff and claudia just being really cute and happy together??????????
"He just looks exactly like you. It’s like I had no input at all."
"Oh you had input,” Claudia says, waggling her eyebrows. Stiles is on her lap, both hands wrapped in her hair and saying momomomomomomomom. It’s his first and only word so far and he’s trying not to be disappointed that Stiles is so much HERS that it’s hard to find any small portion for himself.
"Should you be making innuendos with him there?" the Sheriff asks, raising a stern eyebrow.
Claudia makes a show of putting hands over Stiles’ ears and then says, “In your end-o.”
"Are you happy that our one year old is actually more mature than you?" the Sheriff asks, although he’s biting on a grin. Claudia had brought Stiles into the office with lunch and everyone has been by to stick their heads in and make adoring faces at Stiles. The Sheriff’s enough of a realist to admit that Stiles was a goofy looking baby, one of those that you would call interesting rather than beautiful, but sometime between eleven months, three weeks and twelve months old, he switched over to unbelievably adorable and now Claudia gets stopped in the street with him.
He’s going to be trouble if he keeps going like he is.
Stiles sticks his tongue out and blows an impressive raspberry as if he really doesn’t agree with the Sheriff’s assessment of his maturity level.
"Are you grumpy because he hasn’t said Dad yet?” Claudia asks, making an aren’t you just precious face at him. She’s using fingers to poke Stiles’ tongue back into his mouth when he starts to drag it up and down her arm when she adds, “It’ll happen. I mean, I might eventually have a mommy’s boy but this little monster isn’t it.”
Stiles’ arms come up, hands out and grabbing at the air.
"See? When you’re in the room, Mommy’s not good enough anymore," Claudia says, blinking large, faux-sad eyes at him. She hands Stiles over and the Sheriff takes him. Stiles immediately latches onto his badge, mouthing at it happily.
"He just likes the shiny," the Sheriff says.
"Ugh, I really hope that nickname doesn’t stick," the Sheriff says. He’s even started thinking of his kid mentally as that. One of the nurses at the hospital hadn’t been able to pronounce his first name at all and had taken to calling him Stiles. Claudia had thought it adorable and had used it exclusively ever since.The Sheriff supposed it was better than Peanut, which was what Stiles was called pre-birth and even nearly went on the birth certificate thanks to Claudia’s post-birth loopiness.
I’M SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW YOU HAVE NO FREAKING IDEA.
SOMEONE ACTUALLY FICCED A THING FOR ME
The guy is leaning against the door frame, looking a little winded, though he has the pizza bag balanced gently enough on his hand.
His eyes widen as Derek opens the door and his lips part in a soft ‘o’ before a flush spreads over his cheeks and a crinkled grin splits his face.
"Extra large pepperoni and mushrooms."
"You’re late," Derek says, though there’s not much bite to it. Just the usual hungry grouchiness that accompanies the anticipation of pizza.
"Sorry. There was… we weren’t sure which one of us was going to come. I had to arm-wrestle Scott for the tie-breaker." He seems smug about that for some reason as he slides the pizza out of the case and hands it over to Derek. "I’m Stiles, by the way."
Derek arches an eyebrow and says, “Derek,” since it’s only polite. He sets the pizza box aside.and takes the little mini clipboard to sign for the charge to his card.
Stiles plucks off the customer copy to hand to Derek and slides the clipboard into the bag, but he seems to be lingering a little, so Derek looks back at him, brows raised.
"So, uh. What do you think?" Stiles asks, eyelashes sweeping down flirtatiously as he leans against the door frame.
"You know," Stiles replies, cheeks going hot.
Derek doesn’t know. But the variety of innuendos and possibilities that start spinning through his head are enough to distract him from the pizza and make him really look at the young man lingering in his doorway. His short hair is ruffled, strands going every which way like he runs his fingers through it on a regular basis. Bright eyes, a positively sinful mouth that’s quirked speculatively, and an appealing lanky form with just enough muscle in all the right places.
"Dude. About the special…" his face starts to pale and he straightens from his casual pose. "You have no idea what I’m talking about."
Derek shakes his head in confirmation, though he wishes now that he did know.
"Oh my god. Oh my god if Boyd did this as a - sorry. Sorry! Nevermind. Wow. Just."
He turns, face gone blank as he adds as almost an afterthought, “Excuse me. I have some murder to go commit. Uh, enjoy your pizza.”
And then he’s gone, disappearing down the apartment building hallway. Derek frowns after him, oddly disappointed at his departure and thoroughly confused.
Until he glances at the receipt in his hands.
The receipt that clearly says “special instructions: send your cutest delivery boy”
Derek leans his forehead against the door with a thump as he bellows, “CORA!”
His only response is hysterical laughter from behind the stairs.
Oh my GOD. Derek knows about the curse, knows it when every cell of his body wants to give up, give in, but he can’t. He just keeps standing up. It’s why he keeps getting involved with people whom his instincts tell him aren’t right, because maybe this time it’s his true love. Maybe this one will be the one to break the curse, instead of just another symptom of it.
Derek Hale’s been picturing his True Love for a long time, wondering what she’d look like, what he’d be like, but none of his fantasies ever planned for Stiles Stilinski, leaning away from him, touching his lips, saying, “Did the ground just shake?”
OH MY GOD. THIS NEEDS TO BE FIC
Thy love shall be a motherless child, marked with the signs of constellations, born to the law, sharp tongued, a fox among wolves, a lamp in the dark, said the fairy.
WHY ISN’T THIS A 200K FIC YET??
"Alpha two here, Stiles," the curly-haired one says. "My ideal for our first date would be you and me and the first season of Buffy. I’m thinking pizza, beer and an all night marathon. What do you say to that?"
Stiles lets out a delighted laugh. “Well, I’m more of a season five guy myself, but hey. I’ve still got love for season one. And you can never go wrong with pizza and beer. So, yeah. Great date, Alpha two. What about you, Alpha one?”
Alpha one rest his arms on the back of the white couch they are sitting on, head tilting back thoughtfully. “I’d take you to the boardwalk at Santa Monica. We’d do the rides and games thing until the sun set, then we would walk down the beach to this little Mexican joint I know that is overlooking the ocean. After that, I’d take you back to my place for some desert.”
"Oh I bet you would," Stiles says, his voice wry. "Let me guess, you’d have something sweet for me to lick?"
Alpha one laughs at that. “How’d you know?”
"I’m just clever like that," Stiles shoots back. "Anyway. Moving on now. Alpha number three?"
Derek lets himself smile, because he’s got this one in the bag. “Comic-Con.”