Lillian Weber, a 99-year-old good Samaritan from Iowa, has spent the last few years sewing a dress a day for the Little Dresses For Africa charity, a Christian organization that distributes dresses to children in need in Africa and elsewhere.
Weber’s goal is to make 1,000 dresses by the time she turns 100 on May 6th. So far, she’s made more than 840. Though she says she could make two a day, she only makes one – but each single dress she makes per day is personalized with careful stitchwork. She hopes that each little girl who receives her dress can take pride in her new garment.
“When I first met you, I was fucking terrified” Stiles tells him, staring at Derek with wide and earnest eyes, only slightly bloodshot with the alcohol Derek can smell on his breath.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, because he remembers. He remembers very vividly that same scent on almost everyone he’s ever met. He remembers Stiles staring at him from behind the metal mesh in his father’s patrol car.
“Yeah, but you know why?” Stiles asks, and his expression softens in a way that has Derek swallowing hard, heat rising to his cheeks.
“Why?” Derek asks, even if he thinks the answer is something sort of obvious, that he’s a deadly predator, a murderer, a monster. But Stiles’ eyes are soft and fond and he has this upturn to his mouth, his stupidly gorgeous mouth, that makes Derek’s heart start to beat faster.
“Because up until that point, Lydia Martin was the most beautiful person I’d ever met.”
Derek feels his face heat beneath the gaze that Stiles is leveling at him. He thinks it should be cheesy and lame, what Stiles is saying, but somehow all it does is make Derek want to breech the small distance between them, kiss him. Stiles is looking at his mouth like he has the same thought.
Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. His brain is the static of a broken television, a dead air radio wave. But Stiles is looking at him with a twitch of his lips, a glint in his eye Derek has long associated with trouble.
Derek doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, and he waits for a moment before Stiles lets out a sigh and a soft laugh before he’s pressing forward and kissing Derek.
Derek thinks he has some real audacity, even as he’s kissing Stiles back, fervent and purposeful.
“When I first met you, I was fucking terrified” Stiles tells him, staring at Derek with wide and earnest eyes, only slightly bloodshot with the alcohol Derek can smell on his breath.
“Yeah,” Derek agrees, because he remembers. He remembers very vividly that same scent on almost everyone he’s ever met. He remembers Stiles staring at him from behind the metal mesh in his father’s patrol car.
“Yeah, but you know why?” Stiles asks, and his expression softens in a way that has Derek swallowing hard, heat rising to his cheeks.
“Why?” Derek asks, even if he thinks the answer is something sort of obvious, that he’s a deadly predator, a murderer, a monster. But Stiles’ eyes are soft and fond and he has this upturn to his mouth, his stupidly gorgeous mouth, that makes Derek’s heart start to beat faster.
“Because up until that point, Lydia Martin was the most beautiful person I’d ever met.”
Derek feels his face heat beneath the gaze that Stiles is leveling at him. He thinks it should be cheesy and lame, what Stiles is saying, but somehow all it does is make Derek want to breech the small distance between them, kiss him. Stiles is looking at his mouth like he has the same thought.
Derek doesn’t know what to say to that. His brain is the static of a broken television, a dead air radio wave. But Stiles is looking at him with a twitch of his lips, a glint in his eye Derek has long associated with trouble.
Derek doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing, and he waits for a moment before Stiles lets out a sigh and a soft laugh before he’s pressing forward and kissing Derek.
Derek thinks he has some real audacity, even as he’s kissing Stiles back, fervent and purposeful.
schnapskatze 