Have you seen my bow tie?

(He said I'm autistic)

(From Mark Me Yours)

The space between the couch and the wall had been transformed into a “training area.” Translation: they shoved the coffee table aside and tossed a pillow on the floor in an attempt to absorb impact.

Stiles stood with his legs awkwardly apart and his fists raised in a way that resembled a mix between a penguin and someone who’s never fought even in The Sims.

— First thing — Derek said seriously. — Lower your shoulders. And stop looking like you're about to apologize to the enemy.

— My body was born to apologize, okay?

Derek stepped in, took his arms firmly, and adjusted his stance.

— Keep your center of gravity. Focus on your hips. You don’t fight just with your fists. You fight with everything.

— That explains a lot about you — Stiles muttered, trying to hold the pose. — Okay, now do I punch?

— No. Dodge first.

— Of course. Because dodging is so natural for an anxious nerd with the reflexes of Jell-O.

Derek raised his hands, signaled a slow, predictable strike. Stiles tried to dodge. He really did.

And tripped over his own foot, falling sideways onto the pillow.

— Impressive. — Derek crossed his arms.

— That was an artistic interpretation of falling — Stiles sat up, rubbing his ass.

Derek offered a hand and Stiles took it. When he got up, they were close… too close.

— Again. — Derek said, stepping back and resetting.

Stiles tried again. Then again. Got a little better. Only tripped twice and banged his knee on the corner of the couch once.

— Now try to hit me — Derek said.

— What kind of invitation is that? — Stiles laughed but got into position, taking a deep breath. — If I hurt you, it’s your fault.

He lunged forward with a punch that Derek dodged easily, but with the momentum, Derek pushed him from behind - sending Stiles stumbling, crashing against the wall, breath knocked out of him.

Derek stepped in quickly, without thinking. The world, all of a sudden, felt too small, like it only contained the two of them in this particularly humiliating position.

— Fuck... — Stiles muttered, pressed to the wall. — This is emotional torture, you know?

Derek didn’t answer, just stared at him like he was deciding something really important.

Then Derek kissed him.

The kiss came as an impulse - hot, firm, and infinitely more right than the last time. Now that Derek was in control, it felt more like a kiss and less like a lip collision. The worst part? Stiles liked it.

He responded without hesitation. Like he’d been waiting for it. Like, for a moment, the chaos stopped.

But when the air grew thin and the kiss slowed, he turned his face, panting.

— We shouldn’t…

Derek grabbed his chin gently but firmly, making him look up.

— Stop running.

— I’m not running, I’m being sensible! — Stiles replied, slightly panicked. — We’ve got two magical babies, a potential Celtic supernatural cult coming after us, and now you want me to add romance and combat training to that equation?! I’m just a guy with ADHD and a fear of dying!

— And yet… — Derek said, voice low. — You’re still here.

Stiles swallowed hard.

— I don’t know if I can be someone for… this. For you. For real.

Derek rested his forehead against Stiles’. Gentle. Almost like a silent plea.

— Then stop thinking and just… stay.

(Fanfic link here)

Stiles stumbled through the side gate like a castaway reaching shore. Sweaty, disheveled, with a twig stuck in his shirt, he leaned on his knees, trying not to puke the two granola bars he had for breakfast.

— I’m alive — he whispered, laughing to himself, hands on his hips. — I actually did it. I escaped.

The courtyard seemed calm. Too calm.

The sun was already dipping lower in the sky, bathing the school in golden light. The seniors were nowhere to be seen. Only the faint sound of a distant radio and one very dramatic crow perched on the gym roof broke the silence.

Stiles twirled on his heels like in some imaginary musical, arms wide.

— Derek Hale, you’ll never catch me! I am the ninja of high school!

Then he heard it.

Heels. Slow. Precise.

— Well, well… — came a voice sweet like strawberry-flavored poison. — What do we have here?

Stiles froze. Turned slowly.

Lydia Martin.

Skin flawless even in the heat, eyes narrowed like she was about to dissect a curious insect. Behind her, like loyal shadows, were Erica and Allison - each carrying suspicious buckets, mustard bottles, and looks far too dangerous for a late afternoon.

— Lydia! Hi! What a wonderful coincidence running into you here, haha… I was just… coming back to… die quietly of heatstroke in the shade. You haven’t seen… Derek, have you? Because… I was running, but that’s over now, I think... — Stiles rambled, backing away.

Erica was already grinning.

— He escaped? — she whispered to Lydia, delighted.

Lydia crossed her arms and tilted her head.

— You’re a freshman, right?

— Technically, yes. But spiritually, I’m a senior — Stiles replied, switching to full-on sarcastic social desperation. — I like tea, jazz, and have chronic back pain. I’m basically an old man trapped in a teenager’s body.

— And you ran from the senior hazing — Lydia concluded, ignoring all of that.

— Only for survival reasons! I’m fragile. I’m allergic to flour. I have asthma…

Lydia smiled.

— Then I think it’s only fair… you make up for your absence. With the girls.

— The girls? — Stiles frowned. — What girls?

That’s when he saw it: all the freshman girls on their knees, covered in flour, ketchup, and whipped cream, wearing makeshift veils and glaring with pure hatred.

— NOOOO — Stiles groaned.

— Yeeees — sang Erica and Allison in unison.

— Please, let’s talk. I have solid arguments. This is illegal! This is humiliating! This violates human rights!

Allison gently pushed him by the shoulders.

Lydia spun on her heels like a ringmaster and announced:

— And now, ladies and gentlemen who clearly have nothing better to do on a Friday afternoon… we present the first male freshman to undergo the Wedding Degradation Ceremony!

A crowd appeared from who-knows-where and applauded. Jackson whistled. Danny held up a handmade sign that read JusticieForStiles (yes, spelled wrong).

Stiles looked around, no way out. Then Erica shoved him toward the black Chevy Impala - like some kind of poetic revenge.

And there he was.

Derek Hale.

The guy Stiles had spent the whole afternoon running from.

Derek was sitting on the hood of his car, amusement on his face - until he saw Erica making the weird freshman kneel in front of him.

Stiles wanted to laugh (or cry) at the irony of it all, but instead, he played along.

— Derek Hale… — Stiles began theatrically, covered in whipped cream, flour, and shame. — Even knowing you’d hunt me down for decades… even knowing you probably don’t remember my name… I, Stiles Stilinski, hereby declare… that I want to marry you. But only if you promise not to use the baseball bat.

Silence.

Derek looked at him for a long time, green eyes studying the creature kneeling in front of him.

Then he said, voice rough:

— Only if you promise not to run next time.

Stiles blinked.

— Was that… a yes?

— That was a yes! — Lydia cut in before Stiles could argue. — CEREMONY COMPLETE. Take the picture.

Allison clicked a Polaroid.

Flash.

Stiles was still on his knees.

But now… stunned.

ANANKASTIA by starkira42

a.nan.cas.ti.a ● ɐnɐ̃kɐʃˈtiɐ

1. Type of obsessive-compulsive personality; 2. Compulsive obsession, in which the patient experiences repeated thoughts and impulses beyond their control.

Etymology: From the Greek "anagkastós" [...]

or