Teen Wolf Meta -
Cernunnos, the shape-shifting protector of animals, Horned God of the Animals, aka the Green Man aka Herne the Hunter: Celtic god of pretty much everything - fertility, life, animals, wealth, underworld, knowledge, sun / moon, hunting, sacrifice…
Cernunnos References (and references to online texts about the myths – they’re italicized) about Stiles' association: (arguments could be made that Deaton is Cernunnos, too)
Pic 1 - Deaton’s medallion and Morrell’s necklace - Druids / emissaries associated with / worship (?) Cernunnos
Pic 2 - Different images of Cernunnos (notice the Celtic knot and Triskelion in the first) that are similar to the medallion and necklace
Pic 3 - At the Sacred Centre, in the Grove of all Worlds, He sits with legs crossed beneath an ancient Oak… the god and the Great Tree are One.
The Nemeton is the Tree of Life, the sacred center, the freaking Druid Vatican, and here we see Stiles sitting cross-legged on it (and the Nogitsune in a completely different position).
Pic 4 - At His feet the great Cauldron from which the Five Rivers Flow
There are 5 Telluric currents running through Beacon Hills. Currents = Rivers
Also of note - Deaton’s animal clinic and the bank sit where two currents intersect
Pic 5 - He is the sacrificed one, who, wounded unto death begins his journey to the Underworld…
Stiles as surrogate sacrifice. They were “sacrificed” right on a current intersection.
Pic 6 - In his Underworld aspect Cernunnos is The Dark Man, the god who dwells in the House Beneath the Hill, the Underworld.
Void-Stiles - his “Underworld aspect”
Pic 7 - Cernunnos and His children dream the Worlds
Stiles and his dreams
Pic 8 - The god whose eyes flash star-fire
Stiles as spark / light…
Pic 9 - Cernunnos is depicted with antlers. The characters have theories about the deer but Stiles was present at both incidents.
Pic 10 - wolf and fox!
Alan Davies completely and utterly demolishing gender roles (via vanillanice)
The idea that someone would judge me for shipping used to make me defensive. I used to try and explain, to justify.
But here’s the deal. The thought of Derek and Stiles (standing in here for all the couples that came before and will hopefully come after) makes me happy. They mean a…
Look at these two stayin’ alive motherfuckers, completely 100% believable and realistic as high school juniors, not as a couple of guys recruited straight out of college into undercover police work, walking back from the gym, Stiles saying,
"Hale’s involved, I know he has to be—I just need to figure out how to get close enough to figure it out—" and Scott’s going to worry about him, that maybe he’s getting in too deep, and he’ll be right, because Stiles has already brought Derek lunch, just coming by to see him at his studio, where Derek makes meticulous models of half-burnt houses, cuts up musty books he buys at library sales into wolves, spreading oak trees, creepy art work Stiles doesn’t really get, but he knows what it means when Derek looks up at him, puts down his x-acto knife.
He kisses Derek—has to, to get close enough to be invited to meet Derek’s friends, get a look at the inside of his apartment—but he doesn’t fuck him. That’s crossing a line. He thinks about it, what it would be like to take Derek to bed, but he doesn’t do it. He tells Derek he wants to take it slow, if that’s okay. Derek smiles at his feet and says yeah, sure, okay, if that’s—yeah, of course.
Derek finds out the worst possible way, of course, probably when he gets kidnapped and it’s Stiles who shows up and gets him, wearing jeans and an agency windbreaker, grim and angry and cutting the ropes on Derek’s wrists, and then the part where Stiles shoves him down hard behind a table and shoots someone—
"I thought—" Derek says, numbly, sitting numbly on some concrete steps where someone else in a uniform told them to wait, "I thought you were a social worker."
"Yeah, I’m—not," Stiles says. He’s all banged up. There’s a cut on the bridge of his nose and his knuckles are scraped raw.
"You didn’t want me to know?" Derek says, and then he sees Stiles’ face and he knows, he knows what it looks like, his family, the connections to the Argents, all the deaths, he knows. "Oh," he says.
"It wasn’t like that," Stiles says.
"You were using me to get closer to—or. You thought I had something to do with it," Derek says, his voice wavering, breaking.
"Derek, I’m sorry," Stiles says.
"That’s why you wouldn’t—" Derek draws in a short, hurt breath. "I believed you, that stupid fucking story about how badly you’d been hurt," he says. "But you just didn’t want to fuck me because it would have screwed up your case."
"Fuck you," Derek says. Stiles watches him walk away. Two weeks later there’s a box on his desk at work: a sweater he left at Derek’s once when the weather turned unseasonably warm, the whisk Stiles bought for him at a stoop sale when they were out one Saturday, just walking around. It was 75 cents. That’s it, that’s everything. Stiles never stayed over, never had a toothbrush, never left any other clothes.
He keeps the whisk—something like a reminder to be less of an asshole. He clips the newspaper articles about Derek’s gallery shows, keeps them in a neat little stack tucked into a book.
He thinks about what it was like, kissing Derek, the way Derek would sigh and shift towards him and open his mouth, how badly he wanted to fuck him, how he’s a lying sack of crap.A year after that Kate Argent breaks out of prison. Stiles is working a 36 hour turnaround in New Orleans and doesn’t even hear about it until he gets back, and by then Derek’s been gone for 12 hours, the back door of his studio hanging open, cut paper littering the floor, fluttering out into the alleyway behind the studio in the late afternoon dark gold sunlight, where they used to sit on crates and drink beers, where—They find him, of course they find him, three awful days and a hundred bad leads later, Stiles running on fumes and the nap Scott forced him to take on the lumpy break room couch. Derek is slumped on the floor of the warehouse when they find him, eyes closed, and it takes an age for Stiles to slide down on his knees next to Derek, to put his hand on his shoulder and turn him over, expecting—when Derek opens his eyes, Stiles can’t hold it back, the audible sound of relief."Did he say it?" Scott wants to know at the debriefing. They let Derek take a shower in the locker room and now he’s wearing agency sweats and a t-shirt he’s pretty sure belongs to Scott, eating takeout from the italian place around the corner."Say what?"Scott sighs. “He was supposed to say “We have to stop meeting like this.”“"Why?" Derek says."You know what, fine," Scott says, aggrieved. "I give up."*They let him go and he goes straight to the studio, even though it’s nearly nine at night. Stiles is there, straightens guiltily. The floor is clean, the broken pieces of a few of Derek’s works stacked neatly on a table in the corner."I thought you’d be a few more hours," Stiles says, his hand tight on a the broom handle. "I wasn’t—I didn’t want you to come back to it—""We should stop meeting like this," Derek says."Okay," Stiles says. "Sorry, I’ll just—I’ll go.""Wait," Derek. "I meant—""Oh," Stiles says. "Oh, were you doing Scott’s shitty line?""Yeah," Derek says. There’s a long, weird, silence."I dunno," Stiles says finally. "I think maybe that line only works if then the credits roll, like, immediately after.""Probably so," Derek says. He gets the dustpan out of the closet, and they sweep up the last of the paper together, move the table back against the wall, tape up the broken window pane, working in companionable silence."Thanks for finding me," Derek says, quietly, smoothing down the last piece of masking tape on the window, glancing up at Stiles to find him leaning against the wall, smiling a little."Anytime," Stiles says.ROLL CREDITS.