#Liam and spark

[callsign-rogueone]

the beginning of the end

Liam Mairi x reader (Spark!!)

words: 1.0k

🏷️: happy threshing everybody! I realized that it was today and decided to post this scene that I’ve been struggling to find a place for. the title kinda sets the tone for this one and is a major hint… this is not going to be fun for anyone involved. no book spoilers (pre-fourth wing). murder, blood, one mention of puke but it doesn’t actually happen, typical threshing activities, some girlfriends make an appearance, and so does bestie Bodhi, Garrick and his wisecracking, Liam smells like sawdust, Spark needs a hug. crappy formatting because I’m posting from my phone. will fix later xoxo

“I’ve been waiting for someone like you.”

You freeze, your eyes settling on the dark blue mass reflected in the boy’s sword. He looks shocked even in death, and you realize that he’d likely been distracted by the sight of the dragon behind you while you delivered the killing blow. The bastard deserved it, anyway.

But what do you do now? You wrack your brain for any sort of advice from Kaori’s class, but it all blurs together. Don’t show fear, you can’t show blues fear— or was that greens? No, don’t look reds in the eye… fuck. You’re not supposed to even breathe in a blue’s direction.

But if it’s talking to you, that must be a good sign.

Why it chose you remains unclear.

“You have anger in your blood, girl. I like that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You sheath your sword, slowly turning to face her and immediately regretting it. She’s as terrifying as Sgaeyl, but she’s so much closer to you than you’ve ever been to her or any other dragon, either.

“Hold still.”

You don’t have time to respond, your jaw dropping in a scream as she brings a leg up, slashing at your chest. Your entire body seems to burn, skin set ablaze with pain, and you sink to your knees, gasping for breath. Warm, sticky blood pours down the front of your shirt, the metallic smell overwhelming your senses. 

You’d probably throw up if you had eaten anything in the last twelve hours.

“Get up,” she orders. “Don’t make me regret this decision.”

You gasp and choke as you rise onto one foot, then the other, keeping your fists clenched at your sides — if you touch your neck, or seem affected by it at all, she’ll probably think you’re weak.

She sticks her leg out — the same one that has your blood still dripping from its claws — silently ordering you to mount. You try to keep your weight off of your right arm, but it’s impossible — it requires all of your limbs at work to climb up.

Thankfully she doesn’t try too many twist and turns as she gets you back to the flight field. It’s already hard enough to stay seated with your vision blurring at the edges and your heartbeat feeling too shallow, too uneven. The cold air pushing against the wound is agony, your shredded flight jacket doing hardly anything to cover it.

You slide down less than gracefully, focusing on not vomiting into the gravel of the flight field.

None of the professors comment on the blood soaking your shirt and crusting over your skin as you approach the dais, looking entirely unfazed.

“Tuilfeargach,” you state to the scribe, gritting your teeth, and Kaori’s eyes widen. “Is something the matter, Professor?” You ask with a calmness that makes his skin crawl.

“No. Not at all,” he rasps, clearing his throat.

Bodhi’s jaw drops as he sees you. “Holy shit,” he breathes, “are you-“

“Just a scratch,” you say firmly enough for him to drop it — something in your eyes tells him that it isn’t up for debate.

Dinner that night is remarkably tense. All of your friends have been chosen, and made it out of the forest alive, but nobody seems too happy about it.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to mend it?” your friend asks softly. She’s been eyeing the bloodied bandage all evening, hardly touching her food.

If she did mend it away, you’d probably just earn yourself a set of new, deeper cuts tomorrow. And you’d rather not spend any more time at the healers. They’d sewed it up, but before that they had to spend a good fifteen minutes tweezing out the tiny pieces of cotton from your shirt that had become embedded in the three long wounds. That was worse than the stitches.

“Smart girl,” she appraises, and you flinch at the voice speaking directly into your mind. You still aren’t used to it. You don’t think you’ll ever be.

“Sgaeyl marked him, too,” you deflect, nodding toward the cut bisecting Xaden’s eyebrow. 

“Yeah, but she didn’t maul him,” Garrick argues. “You look like you were attacked by a bear.”

“I find that comparison insulting.”

“Well, it looks badass, at least,” Bodhi offers with a sympathetic smile, changing the subject. “What do you guys think your signet is gonna be?”

Thankfully someone else answers, and the conversation lightens — one of your friends wants to be an ice wielder, another a magnetist, which leads to a debate about whether or not that‘s a thing.

If anybody notices you rise from the table with your half-eaten plate and disappear, they’re smart enough not to say anything.

You drag yourself through the shower and then to your new room, which is a considerable upgrade from the endless row of bunk beds that you’d been in prior. Your reward for surviving and bonding a dragon, you suppose. You’d rather be there than here, if it meant you wouldn’t be in so much pain, and stuck with such a bitch of a dragon. But to do it all over again, like the few cadets who weren’t chosen will have to… you don’t know what’s worse. At least you’re still alive. That’s more than you can say for the boy you’d crossed paths with. Have they found his body yet?

You kneel down, dumping everything out of your bag to find what lies at the bottom. You’re flooded with relief that the soft cream-colored sweater is still there, undamaged. You pull it over your head, biting your lip to hold back a sob as you put your arms through, stretching your stitches.

The sleeves are too long, the cuffs extending past your fingertips. You lift one up to your face, taking a few shaking sniffs. It’s faint, but it’s still there: sawdust.

That’s the last straw — you curl up in the corner of your new, larger bed, and cry for the first time in three months; raw, body-shaking sobs that send waves of pain through your chest.

When you’ve run out of tears, you work your way under the covers, pulling your knees up toward your chest and drifting into a warm, black sleep.

[callsign-rogueone]

in this order: Love, Ridoc (and a little bit Bodhi too), Sweetheart, Mira, Angel, Spark.

Random Character Profiles

Prodigal slacker. An exceptional intellect, capable of solving complex problems with ease, but absolutely no drive or motivation to apply their abilities towards any practical endeavors. Others are often frustrated by the wasted talent, but they couldn't care less. If their ideas are so great, someone else can come up with them. They're just here to laze around and have fun.

Loveable annoyance. A mind that dances on the border of sanity, and a perpetual source of simultaneous amusement and irritation. They delight in making puns and bad jokes at the expense of others' patience. Undeniably loveable nonetheless.

Reluctant recluse. They present a facade of rugged independence, portraying themselves as one who thrives on solitude and despises the company of others. They project an air of indifference towards others, often dismissing any attempts at connection or sympathy with a sharp retort or a cold shoulder. But beneath this tough exterior lies a soft spot reserved for the select few who have managed to breach their defenses—though they're reluctant to show it, going to great lengths to conceal the affection they view as weakness. Their stubborn refusal to accept help or acknowledge their own struggles stems from a fiercely guarded sense of pride, manifested in their vehement denial of any signs of weakness or vulnerability, even when they're visibly on the brink of death.

Sister figure. Sharp-witted and quick-tongued; will shame, embarrass, and ruthlessly tease. Their sarcasm is as much a display of fondness as it is merciless. Fiercely affectionate, extremely caring, unwaveringly loyal. Will put themself in danger for those they love, and will not hesitate to hurt anyone who offends or hurts those they care for; but mess up, and their sternness could make a warrior sob.

Impressively patient. Reserved, caring, mature, typically polite and tolerant to an extreme extent. May lash out occasionally. Possessive of a quiet strength, tending to observe situations with a thoughtful demeanor. Their reserved nature can be mistaken for aloofness despite their deep well of empathy and care for those around them. They navigate social interactions with a polite grace; however, beneath this composed exterior lies a potential for volatility on the rare occasions when they are pushed to their limit. Often the peacekeeper in friend groups.

People hater. Seems perpetually done with everything and everyone. Specialises in dry remarks and diminishing enthusiasm. General mood killer. However, their outward projection of disdain and superiority is really a mask of their own feelings of inadequacy.

Feel free to add on any other character descriptions you like! Happy writing ❤

[sharksandsquirrelsandsnakes-ohmy]

Stiles is Supernatural Crack

3. Puppy Piles and Magic Spells

Masterlist | AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Derek parked along the street and Stiles opened his car door. His nose was still stuck in the book to the point that he didn’t see Scoot and literally walked into him.

“Scott, hey man. Look at all the cool things I found in this book,” Stiles said and looked up at Scott. His eyes had heavy bags under them. He was pale and practically dead on his feet.

Scott took the book away. “How many spells did you do? You need to go to bed,” Scott definitively.

Stiles rolled his eyes but walked towards his house with Scott and Derek to either side. Jackson trailed behind them, ready to play catch if he had too. They made it to the threshold of the door and were stopped. Scott unlocked the door and pushed it open, feeling his hand hit a barrier.

“Stiles, did you put mountain ash in the doorway,” Scott asked with a sigh.

“And the windows. I do whenever there’s a new big bad. Here,” Stiles said, kicking his foot out. He didn’t touch the line of ash but it scattered like he had. “I’ll fix it later.”

Scott and Derek shared a look. Magic. Stiles held the Nemeton magic.They crossed the entryway. Jackson turned to open the door and stopped. He was completely perplexed. The line of mountain ash had reformed itself. He got Derek and Scott’s attention and pointed it out. He closed the door and decided not to think too hard on it. Maybe it was a new Stiles thing.

“God, why am I so tired,” Stiles huffed. It was relieving and irritating all at once. He wasn’t supposed to sleep on a concussion– he wondered if it still applied since he’d apparently been unconscious most the night– but he was drained. On the bright side, the buzzing was weak and wasn’t nearly as loud.

“Probably because you were muttering spells the whole way here,” Jackson mumbled, earning a glare from Derek.

“I’ll make you something to eat,” Scott told Stiles. “You go up to bed.”

Stiles looked at Scott like he was crazy. “Scott, you’ll burn my house down,” He said with raised eyebrows, quickly adding a “sorry Derek.”

“Come on man, I’m not that bad!”

“Do you remember that time we tried to make pizza and you thought it would be cool to cook it like they do in a pizza oven and you didn’t put a pan under the pizza when you put it in the oven…”

“Fine! I’ll just make a sandwich. Jeez…” Scott mumbled and Stiles smirked, shooting him finger guns.

Stiles started towards the stairs and about ate shit. He would have if Derek hadn’t been there to catch him by the shirt. He took another step and another. As he went up to his room, he was pretty sure Derek was never more than two inches away.

Or at least he was till they got to Stiles’ room. Stiles walked in and crawled under his covers. He stretched and sighed. Damn, it felt good to be in his own bed again. He felt fucking exhausted and energized all at once. He looked up to see Derek just standing by the door staring at him. Stiles returned the stare but Derek didn’t seem to care.

Stiles narrowed his eye, watching Derek. “Are you going to stand there like a creep or…” he asked and Derek rolled his eyes.

Derek walked over to Stiles’ desk and pulled out the chair. He dragged it next to Stiles’ bed and sat down. He didn’t stop staring at Stiles.

He snorted, “yes, that is so much better. You, sitting next to my bed and staring at me…”

“Would a sandwich stop the weird,” Scott asked, walking into the room with a plate and a glass of water.

“No but it’ll stop my stomach from trying to eat itself,” Stiles said, sitting up to take the plate. “What’s this,” he asked, holding up a pill.

“Sleeping pills,” Scott shrugged.

“Not the melatonin ones, right? Those ones cause the–”

“I know,” Scott said, hearing the uptake in Stiles’ heartbeat. “I made sure to get yours.”

“Great,” Stiles said, popping the pills in his mouth and chugging the water.

He didn’t even remember eating the sandwich. Stiles woke up to the whole troop crowding him again. Well, except Jackson who seems to have taken over Derek’s position as the Creepy Corner Stalker™. Scott was laying in the bed on Stiles’ right and Kira was asleep on top of him. Ethan was also in the bed on his left. Malia, who didn’t have the word personal space anywhere in her vocabulary, was laying at the end of the bed in the last bit of room left. Isaac passed out sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, and Liam was on the floor too, leaning on Isaac’s shoulder and the bed. Derek… Derek was in his full wolf form, laying on Stiles’ chest

Stiles was fucking suffocating from the shear amount of heat radiating off the others. Add his blankets and two more that Scott and Malia had apparently deemed necessary and he felt like he was having a heat stroke. The change in Stiles breathing, signaling he was awake, must have been like a goddamned alarm clock because they all woke up and were staring at him.

“Gee, almost the whole gang's here,” Stiles rasped, his voice still rough from sleep.

“Lydia and Mason are doing research in the kitchen,” came a rogue mumble from god-knows-who in the pile.

“Why don’t we invite Parrish. I’m sure we aren’t quite to a fire code violation yet,” Stiles snarked, shuffling uncomfortably and Derek huffed a hot breath in his face. “Hey, puppy breath, if you don’t get some of these blankets off, I’m going to catch on fire!”

It didn’t seem to disturb the pile of sleepy werewolves. Stiles watched as Isaac reached up and pulled one of the blankets onto the floor. There were mumbled arguments of “get your own” and “you’re an ass” before what was likely Liam pulled a blanket off the bed for himself.

They must have heard the group bickering from downstairs because, soon enough, Lydia and Mason came up to Stiles' room to do research. Mason took the stack of books and their computers to the desk, not batting an eye when Lydia abandoned him for Stiles.

Lydia pressed a hand to Stiles' forehead and pursed her lips. He was definitely warm. It was anybody’s guess if it was because he was sick and healing or because of the eight personal space heaters packed into his room.

“It’s weird, right,” Scott asked Lydia in a sleep heavy voice and she nodded.

“I just don’t understand why we feel it…” Lydia hummed, standing up but still looking at Stiles.

“What’s weird? Feel what,” Stiles asked. It was never good when the brain trust was confused.

“Nobody called us to say you were home,” Kira said. “We all just… showed up. It was like something was pulling us to you…”

“Stiles,” Lydia pulled his attention. She started to say something but closed her lips tightly. “I don’t remember driving here.”

“Like when you find dead bodies ‘don’t remember driving here’ don’t remember,” Stiles asked and Lydia nodded. “Well I’m not dead and they’re all too warm to be dead.”

“I found the Nemeton page,” Mason said, walking over to the bed, still reading the Bestiary off the laptop. Lydia walked over to him to read it too.

Kira watched them and then looked back to Stiles. “Lydia was with Mason and me when she started on her way here,” she told him in a whisper, knowing Mason and Lydia were the only ones who didn’t hear. “It wasn’t exactly like when she finds bodies, more like when she found the Nemeton last time…”

“Is that why they’re looking for info about it,” Stiles asked.

Kira nodded, “and because of what Deaton said… Scott told Lydia what he remembered and Derek filled in the rest.” Kira took a deep breath and looked at Stiles. “When Lydia broke out of the trance and realized where she was… she started freaking out. She ran in and,” she chewed her lip, “it took both Scott and Jackson to keep her downstairs. They had to let her come up here and take your pulse just to be sure you were alive.”

Stiles frowned and looked at Lydia. “She was that worried?”

“She thought you’d died,” Kira said with a frown.

“God, it’s hot in here,” Mason huffed, handing the laptop over to Lydia. He took his jacket off and started towards the window.

“No! No! Don’t–” Liam yelled as Mason opened the window.

A swarm of fae tried to fly in. Thanks to the absurd number of mountain ash around the house– courtesy of Stiles– they couldn’t get in. The peaceful pile of sleepy werewolves was disrupted as Scott jumped out of the bed, knocking Kira onto the floor. Scott slammed the window shut and Mason looked at him, breathing heavily. Derek moved to look towards the commotion, giving Stiles the chance to sit up.

“What the Hell was that,” Scott asked.

From the other side of the room, Lydia sighed and started to explain, “those were–”

"The fae," Stiles mumbled.

She looked back at the laptop. “Long story short: Stiles absorbed the magic from the Nemeton and now he’s like crack to magical creatures,” Lydia told them. She gestured to Stiles, “Stiles is the Nemeton now so all the supernatural creatures are being drawn to him.”

Scott looked at Lydia with his patented I-don’t-understand-anything-you-just-said look. “But the Nemeton was never this bad.”

“The Nemeton didn’t have centuries worth of magic crammed into, what is it he said, one-hundred and forty-five pounds of pale skin and fragile bones,” Isaac pitched in. Liam must have hit him as it was quickly followed by, “Ouch! What the fuck, Liam?”

“Shut up,” Liam said.

Before they could get any further on the topic, all the Weres became aware of something the others didn’t know.

“Food’s here,” Liam yelled, jumping up and running out of the room.

Malia got up from her spot too and went after Liam. The second Malia was out the door, Isaac was in the space on the bed she’d left. Obviously they were all excited for food. As quickly as they were gone, Liam and Malia came back with food.

“What the fuck,” Malia complained, staring at Isaac.

“What,” Isaac said, feigning innocence.

“You stole my spot,” Malia told him, moving to stand at the edge of the bed.

“Move your meat, lose your seat,” Isaac shrugged, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“Oh, I’ll show you move your meat,” Malia retorted and snickers rolled through the room.

Malia grabbed Isaac’s scarf. Isaac grabbed her wrist and glared at her.

“If you rip it, I’ll kill you,” Isaac threatened.

“Bull. Shit,” Malia scoffed, pulling hard on the scarf in an attempt to move Isaac.

The sound of threads ripping made Isaac’s eyes go wide. She succeeded in moving him but, apparently, Malia didn’t expect that when he moved, he’d tackle her to the ground. The two hit the floor with a loud thump. They argued and bickered like children, smacking and grabbing at each other's hands. They finally seemed to be in a stalemate, glaring at each other.

Malia dug her claws into the back of his hands and Isaac yelped “fuck,” in surprise, faultering for just a second.

The second was enough for Malia to throw Isaac off and get to her feet. She looked at her spot triumphantly, only to see Liam in her spot and Kira eating her abandoned meal.

“Oh sorry, is this yours,” Kira asked jokingly and Isaac started laughing wildly.

“Serves you right,” Isaac said.

Kira smiled, sitting down next to Stiles, and ate the burger smugly, leaving her curly fries unprotected. Stiles took the opportunity and stole some of them. Kira turned to yell at whoever had stolen her food. She looked from Stiles to Derek and back. She gave an irritated huff and glared at Stiles.

“That’s a dangerous game you’re playing,” Scott muttered and Kira’s glare turned to him. “She gets very territorial about food.”

“Oh, I’m sorry that some of us had fast metabolisms,” Kira scoffed.

“Ya, like Stiles,” Liam pitched in around a mouth full of food.

“Oh god,” Malia groaned, rolling her eyes.

“Could you imagine how much Stiles would eat if he was a werewolf,” Scott remarked with a chuckle, coming back over to sit on the bed.

“Hey,” Stiles interjected, “I am right here, guys.”

“Alright ‘right-here’, eat up,” Sheriff said, tossing a bag of food at his son.

Parrish walked in with Sheriff Noah. Between the two of them they had enough food to feed the small army in Stiles' room. Everyone moved to be closer to get their food. Scott sat on the floor and leaned against Stiles' bedside table. Lydia was allowed space on the bed without a fight out of both fear and respect.

Sheriff stopped as he gave Scott his food. “What’s with the dog?”

The comment sent the room into a fit of laughter. Based on the way Derek’s ears set back and the fact that Stiles could somehow tell Derek’s eyebrows were furrowed even though they didn’t exist at the moment, he didn’t find it nearly as funny.

“That’s Derek,” Stiles said between laughter.

“Did Derek… Ya know what,” Noah held his hands up in defeat, “I don’t care. I don’t want to know.”

Parrish, who had come in with Sheriff Noah, was passing out the bags of food. When the last of the food was handed out, they all started to eat. The plan was to eat and then explain because there was a lot to unravel.

“If you guys learn anything from Deaton,” Liam asked, looking at Scott expectantly.

Scott nodded, swallowing his mouthful of food. “What happened with the Chupacabra and to you were defensive spells.” Scott looked at Stiles, “you said the magic had a buzzing feeling, right?” Stiles nodded and Scott started talking again. “Because Stiles has all that power– like Lydia said– it builds in a buzzing feeling. Deaton gave Stiles a book of spells that he can work on that will help get rid of that feeling and help him relax but he has to be careful not to overdo it. The important part is that the magic saved Stiles’ life. It’s what allowed him to fight the chupacabra off him.”

Stiles nodded, looking around the room. The buzzing was back, slowing building the longer he was awake. How often would this happen? How long before it became unbearable again? Stiles looked around, spotting the book on his bedside table. He looked at it and then at Ethan.

The werewolf seemed to get the point rather quickly and gave Stiles the book. He gave a thankful smile and opened the book. He looked through the book and found one of the lower protection spells. He mumbled the words, absently drawing the symbol. It wasn’t until the room went quiet and they looked at Stiles that he realized he was doing it.

“Sorry,” Stiles said, clearing his throat, "what were you saying?" He wasn’t sorry. The buzzing was fading and he felt better. He felt better.

Stiles rubbed his hand over Derek’s fur and slowly stopped. He’d drawn the symbol on Derek. What would that do? Would it do anything since Derek was a werewolf? Did it matter? He’d wanted to learn more so he could be of real help but what if he couldn’t? What if the spells wouldn’t work on the werewolves? Would they work on people or just objects? What if they didn’t stay long enough to be any good? What good was he? He’d almost gotten killed in the last fight! He hurt Liam because he couldn’t control the magic that saved his life! He was useless and dangerous. He hurt people.

Derek nosed at Stiles arm and pulled him from his thoughts. Stiles looked down at Derek and felt how fast his breathing had gotten. The buzzing, fuck, it was coming back in full force. Stiles forced himself to slow his breathing. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the wall behind his bed.

Oh, this was going to be a pain in his ass.

[angelictears777]

[ilovemyselfak]

Teen Wolf Movie Fix - It

Derek return as true evolved alpha & rebuilding the Hale Pack.

Eli being both nemton & sterek baby.

Stiles returns & saved derek . He being kitsune spark / spark.

Jordan & Malia , Isaac & Cora being lovers .

Jordan & Isaac being long lost siblings .

Stiles & Theo being friends .

Kira being being friends with hale cousin sisters .

Peter being good dad / uncle .

Thiam comeback .

Just stiles , isaac , cora , kira , theo come back .

Rebuilding hale pack .

[salamifuposey]

Jayt doesn't actually believe to sticking to just holidays for gifting 🎁🍰this might come at the expense of someone getting all tubby.

[whenziamwere18]

Can someone please shake me hard enough so I can wake up from this bad dream

[howdiditendlor]

moodboard for the problematic and juicy fic

dt @bendystrah @hemlocksandfoxgloves

[cvptainbucky]

the world is a scary place and the past two weeks have been tragically sad but at least i can always blast old one direction music while i work from home and then everything feels like its okay

[callsign-rogueone]

alone with you - l.m.

Liam Mairi x reader part two of Liam and Spark's story. words: 3.0k 🏷: Fourth Wing spoilers (spark knows things that Violet doesn't lmao), sparring and a tiny bit of blood, reader gets injured but not to worry, someone takes care of you. no pronouns used for reader but Liam does call you a girl. Tuile being a bitch (wbk) and perhaps some answers about what happened in spark's first year at basgiath... I'm still not good at writing fight scenes, sorry lol

Another year, another round of challenges. Another opportunity to show the entire quadrant that you’re not here to fuck around, nor to make friends.

You loosen your muscles as Emeterrio discusses the rules of engagement, cracking your neck and stretching out your arms, taking mental inventory of all the weapons on your body -- even though it’s frowned upon to use them in these fights, you keep the array of knives at the ready.

“I see the general’s girl has survived the week,” Tuile muses. “I’m almost impressed.”

You cast a glance across the room, seeing her standing next to the cadet who was in front of her in line for Parapet, the one she’d traded boots with.

“It’s only a matter of time,” you mutter back. 

Even though Xaden had convinced the two dozen of you to leave her alone, it’s likely that somebody else is going to see how fragile she is and walk right up and snap her in two, to thin the herd -- not that she has a real chance of making it to threshing anyway, not without some divine intervention.

But she’s a perfect little Navarrian citizen, so she must pray to their gods every night before bed. Maybe they’ll help her, because you sure as hell won’t; you have a reputation to maintain, and there’s no rational explanation you could give her for why you would want to help her at all, not without jeopardizing the entire revolution -- she might not take after her traitorous older brother, who as far as she and everyone else in this death trap of a college is aware, is dead.

She seems to notice you watching her, locking eyes with you for a split second and quickly averting her gaze. She’s afraid of you and all of your friends, unaware that your respect for Brennan is what’s keeping her alive right now.

Fear is a requirement for survival here. Maybe she’ll make it longer than you’d thought.

It’s not a surprise to you at all that your name is called first, nor that you’re matched with the largest cadet in the class. It became clear to you last year that the professors aren’t making these assignments randomly. It couldn’t be a coincidence that they keep pairing you with the best fighters -- but never with another marked one, even though you’re all at the top of the class.

No, they’re probably entertained by all of this, betting on you like racehorses or wild dogs, placing wagers on who would come out on top. If anyone’s putting money on you, you’ve made them a killing -- you’re undefeated. 

But that would require someone else to bet against you, and while you may not respect all of the professors and leadership, or any of them, really, you don’t think they’re dumb enough to throw their money away like that.

“We meet again,” he says with a sick grin that makes the scar below his eye stretch and contort.

You don’t respond, taking one last survey of the seven blades on your body, but you’re not dumb enough to touch them, lest he see where they are and try to take them himself, like he did earlier this year.

He’d wrapped his fingers around the wooden hilt of the blade that Liam had given you before you left for Basgiath, intent on putting it through your heart, and you’d seen red.

“You should have taken his eye out.”

“I gave him that scar as a warning,” you reply evenly. “It’s up to him if he’s going to heed it or not.”

You’re at it as soon as Emeterrio says go, taking turns lunging at each other and blocking attacks.

You’re evenly matched, despite the size he has on you. He may be stronger, more intimidating, but you’re faster, and you know what you’re doing. You know where to hit and when, your strikes much more precise than his.

Still, Liam’s heart races.

It was one thing watching you mess around with Bodhi in the courtyard, but it’s another thing entirely seeing you fight as if your life depends on it -- and it does. There’s a very real possibility that one of you is going to be spending the evening in the infirmary, or the morgue, after this ends. 

You fight like Xaden, like himself and Bodhi and Imogen and everyone else his brother had a hand in training, but with an edge he’s never seen from you before.

He hesitates to put a name to it, but there’s something in your eyes akin to a wild animal’s as the pair of you stalk circles around each other, planning your next attack.

“It’s not polite to play with your food,” Tuile chides.

Fine. You’ll finish this, if only so she’ll shut up and leave you alone.

The other cadet has the same idea. 

You charge at the same time as he hurls a dagger in your direction, and you hit the ground at the last second to avoid being skewered. You start to press up to your feet, but he stomps a boot into your back, pain ripping down your spine. You swallow a scream, digging your nails into the sticky foam beneath you.

The mental wall separating you from Tuile crumbles, that familiar white-hot anger flowing through you. “Do something.”

You unsheath a dagger, reaching up and swiping it across his calf, and he hisses in pain, releasing you and taking a stumbling step back.

It’s easy enough for you to knock him off balance, landing three consecutive blows to his ribs and a swift kick to his stomach that sends him to the floor.

You’re tired of this already. It’s lost its novelty, and you really need to sit down -- there’s black spots clouding your vision, and the pain in your back has gotten impossibly worse.

“Do I have to kill you in front of the kids, or do you yield?” 

“I yield,” he rasps, still clutching his leg.

You lean down, wiping each side of the blade on his shirt before you sheath it.

“Sloppy, but satisfactory,” Tuile comments — that’s high praise from her. Maybe she’ll give you the evening off from her snide remarks.

You slot yourself between Liam and Bodhi, leaning against the wall as casually as you can; every movement has pain spreading across your lower back and shooting down your spine. 

You try to focus on rebuilding the wall she’d knocked down, brick by brick, taking deep breaths and forcing the anger out of your body.

Liam reaches for you, looking worried.

You speak under your breath, not moving your lips. “Not here. Not in front of everyone.” 

He pulls back without protest, understanding why you don’t want him helping you where the rest of the quadrant can see you, don’t want them to see the look of concern on his face and his hand on your arm and identify him as your weakness.

You may very well be the most hated person in the quadrant, being marked, bonded to one of Navarre’s nastiest dragons, and unafraid to draw blood in challenges. There are several cadets in this room who wouldn’t hesitate to go after Liam if they thought it would hurt you -- and it would. 

You don’t care what they do to you, what pain they inflict or what scars they leave on your body, but if anyone so much as touches Liam, they’ll lose the use of their hands. 

You breathe through the pain and keep your eyes on the fights unfolding in front of you; making note of who favors what side of their body, who gets sloppy after more than a minute, who yields because they don’t have the stomach to take things further.

Most of the cadets think this is the one class you don’t have to study for, but they’d be wrong -- there’s a reason you always come out on top, and this is it.

The class ends without Liam’s name being called, which is a relief, even though you don’t doubt his skill on the mat — it’s off the mat that you’re worried about. 

Almost everyone heads straight to dinner, but Liam hangs back, getting your attention with a barely-there touch to your elbow. You look over at him, and he nods in the other direction, toward the dorms. 

Of course he’s going to insist on checking your injuries himself, as he always did in the years you trained with him and Xaden. He doesn’t seem to think anything has changed between you in the year you’ve been away.

Sooner or later, he’ll realize he’s wrong.

You wait for nearly everyone to be out of the gym before you leave, leading him up to the second floor in silence and unlocking your door with a wave of your hand, gesturing him inside -- thankfully there’s nobody in the hallway to see you.

You haven’t been alone with him in a full year. A year and two weeks, if you want to be precise. The day you’d said goodbye, and nothing else.

You busy yourself with digging through your desk drawer to find the nearly-empty tin of healing balm, handing it to him before you turn away, gritting your teeth as you pull the shirt up over your head. 

If you weren’t pouring every ounce of energy you have left into keeping yourself upright, you might have it in you to be embarrassed about the amount of skin you’re exposing to him, the history of your first year at Basgiath on full display. But it’s Liam. Liam isn’t going to judge you, isn’t going to pry; he’ll just keep giving you that soft, concerned look -- which is somehow almost worse.

There’s a moment of quiet as he takes it in; the dark blue, nearly-black silhouette of Tuile that spans your shoulder blades and continues down your back, disappearing into the layers of thick linen wrapped over your chest, the full extent of your rebellion relic, winding down your arm to your wrist… 

Then he sees it, the nasty bruise starting to form on your back, below the hem of your bindings. The other cadet had hit you square in the spine, a blow that could very well have been paralyzing had it been delivered at a slightly different angle with slightly more force. That’s probably what he’d intended.

Liam isn’t particularly religious -- none of you are, which was a major reason why your parents had wanted to secede from Navarre -- but he still sends up a silent thank you to the powers that be that you’re okay, standing in front of him mostly unharmed.

You grit your teeth, keeping your eyes shut and gripping the shirt tightly as Liam’s hand rubs over your back, working in the healing balm. 

There’s something about the feeling of his skin on yours that is more uncomfortable than the aching bruise or any of the other injuries you’d sustained in that fight. 

You can handle the brush of your hands, a touch through layers of clothing and armor, eye contact and whispered words and smiles — all things that are acceptable behavior between friends — but the tenderness of this whole thing is overwhelming; being alone with Liam in your room, his bookbag on the floor, standing behind you rubbing a hand over your back, the other on your waist to hold you steady because you’re fucking trembling.

Maybe you are a little embarrassed after all.

The skin feels warm and tingly, a sign that whatever healing herbs within the sticky paste are working, soothing the aching muscle. Your entire body feels warm. It’s unbearably hot in this room, but Liam doesn’t seem to mind, still dressed in his flight jacket and full uniform. 

He moves his attention from your back to your side, murmuring a soft apology when you startle at the feeling of his hand smoothing over your ribs.

You take a breath, letting him work more of the balm into the spot where the other cadet’s fist had landed.

He finally pulls back, letting his hand linger on your waist until he’s convinced you won’t fall over. “Anything else hurting?” he asks gently.

“My head,” you admit to the wall. “But that never goes away.”

You pull the shirt back on as quickly as you can, done feeling exposed, and fight to maintain an unaffected expression as you turn back to face him.

He looks at you for a few seconds before it dawns on him -- the persistent headache, the flatness of your skin and your constantly racing heart, the way you’re bracing yourself with a hand on the desk, how tired you look and feel… “Spark, when was the last time you had water? Or anything to drink at all?”

Liam has always been too observant for his own good. 

You take a moment to think about it, another definite indicator that something is wrong. “Yesterday,” you answer quietly. “At dinner.” 

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly. It’s been a full twenty-four hours -- you’re supposed to be at dinner right now. It’s a miracle that you hadn’t passed out on the mat this afternoon.

He doesn’t scold you, doesn’t tell you how bad that is; he just squeezes your hand gently, taking the water bottle out of his bag and uncapping it. He can see you hesitating, knows something is wrong --  it takes a lot to rattle you, but you’re looking at the thing like it’s going to bite you.

“Three sips?” he asks softly.

That seems doable.

You take the bottle from him, holding it for a moment, feeling the weight of the metal and the energy flowing through the water inside it. It’s clean, calm, not murky and angry like the river water that Carr had made you practice with last year, but that doesn’t matter; in your hands, it’s the most dangerous substance on the planet.

And as fate would have it, it’s necessary for your survival.

You’re just grateful Tuile is off doing gods-know-what and not making her usual smug commentary -- she’d left after you’d won that challenge match, but she’ll be back soon enough. 

You raise it to your lips and drink, wanting to get it over with. The water is cool and crisp, breathing life back into your mouth and soothing your throat as you swallow, your body singing in relief as you give it what it’s been deprived of for months now. 

You take a moment to breathe, comforted by the air that continues to flow into your lungs and back out. Liam is standing in front of you. You’re okay. Two more. You can do this.

You bring it back up for another sip. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this, how much better it would make you feel. You take the next one in quick succession — that’s three. You’re done. 

You hate to admit it, but you feel better already.

Liam is still watching you with that soft, worried expression, though it’s less severe now than it had been earlier. You can see the gears turning, knowing he’s wondering why this was such a big deal for you; but there’s no judgment there, just genuine concern for your well-being.

You decide to tell him the truth, or part of it.

“I almost drowned when I channeled for the first time,” you say quietly, gazing back down at the half-empty bottle. “It was fucking terrifying. I couldn’t shower alone for a week. I needed one of the girls to come into the bathroom with me and face the wall, just talking to me the whole time. Then we realized Bo can counter signets. He’s been helping me control it, but…”

So that’s what Xaden had meant when he said that Bodhi was helping you deal with things. He wonders if there’s anything else his brother hadn’t told him, anything you aren’t telling him, but he won’t demand an answer from you -- he knows how difficult it must have been for you to tell him what you did, and he won’t push you further.

He takes the bottle back and caps it, gathering you into his arms silently, the way he’d wanted to back in the gym. He’s careful not to put any pressure on the injury, keeping his hands well above the bruise -- one between your shoulder blades and one on your ribs, on the side that you hadn’t been hit.

You rest your head on his shoulder, speaking in a whisper. “Thank you, Li.”

His lips brush over your hairline, where the ache is the worst. “Of course, sweet girl.”

You don’t want to let go of him yet, but you’ve already been holding each other longer than is appropriate for friends -- and that’s all you are, for the time being. 

He finally pulls away, and you could nearly cry at the loss of contact. 

“I need a minute,” you manage. “You should head down.”

You’re reminded again of why you love him so much as he nods in understanding, shouldering his bag and giving you a soft smile before he heads out your door.

All good things must come to an end. 

“Sweet? He must not know you at all.” 

“He knows me better than you ever will,” you snap back. 

At least she waited for him to leave, for you to be done with the water, or you would have some serious explaining to do.

You build up the wall again before she replies, and though it isn’t strong enough to block her out completely, she doesn’t push against it or knock it down -- she must not feel like getting into a pissing match with you right now. 

Good. You don’t either.

You notice he left the bottle on your desk. You manage another three sips before you finally head down to dinner, where you slide into the open seat beside Liam, silently pushing the empty bottle toward him. 

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, not wanting to draw any attention from the group around you, who are all immersed in hearty conversation.

You haven’t heard those words from anyone in a long time. They mean more to you than he could ever imagine.

[knightsofrohan]

[dwyur]

[sharksandsquirrelsandsnakes-ohmy]

Stiles is Supernatural Crack

4. Low Blood Sugar Grumpy Ass

Masterlist | AO3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

Stiles didn’t know when but Scott had apparently let it slip to the pack that failing to learn to control the magic would drive Stiles crazy. Since that got out, Stiles had only been alone when he was in the bathroom and Malia had even tried to be a part of that. 

Her defense was “what? I’ve seen you naked plenty of times before.”

Stiles stopped and turned around to face her. “Yes, before. As in before we broke up,” he affirmed and went to the bathroom, locking it to make sure they would at least make noise if they tried to walk in. If he were more petty, he could have mountain ashed the door.

It wasn’t all bad. Actually, sometimes it was really nice. He had his friends around more than ever. 

Slowing, they stopped showing up everyday but it’s not like he expected them to stay with him every free second. Deaton had explained the ‘pull’ to him would decrease as they got used to the feeling, but it was still weird after having them there so much. They’d have pack nights once or twice a week. Lydia was helping him learn spells. He had a battery of snacks at hand anytime he looked even slightly paler than usual, which was a regular thing since he hadn’t spent much time outside lately. He could usually be found in his room, the kitchen or at Deaton’s. 

Lydia was a rule follower when it came to learning magic or doing spells. She reinforced the lines Deaton set and tried to get Stiles to follow the book's order of spells. Spoiler alert: did not work. Like, ever. Stiles was always trying to push the limits of what he could do and Lydia was always having to feed his low blood sugar grumpy ass.

Stiles was on his bed reading from a book of healing spells. He heard someone coming up the stairs and looked up to see Lydia walking in with tea for the both of them. “Hey Lydia, what do you think of this?”

Lydia gave him the cup and took the spell book. She hummed, blowing on her tea to cool it before taking a drink. Lydia fidgeted with the edge of the page as she read. When she’d finished reading, she closed the book.

“I think we should get the idiots protection spells so we don’t need to bother with healing,” Lyida told him, putting the book on the desk across the room.

“Hey,” Stiles objected, “I was reading that.”

Lydia gave him a cold look and Stiles settled. “No healing spells, Stiles.”

Between Lydia and Deaton, Stiles had littered his house in protective spells to the point that they had removed the mountain ash. Of course, that meant that, more than once, Stiles had woken up with more people in his room than had been there when he fell asleep, but rarely the other way around. It was getting to the point that it was hard to tell which clothes belonged to who. 

Most people were in and out because of jobs, school, and other wolfly-duties. Everyone except for Derek. He was a constant. He had no job and didn’t need one. 

Lydia had so many college credits when they finished high school that, only four years later, she'd already earned a BS of Physics with a Business minor, a Ph.D. of Mathematics, and was currently working as… something she had to sign an NDA for. Scott had finished Veterinary school(barely, due to supernatural happenings) and was working with Deaton. 

Stiles had actually been able to get a job that played to his very particular set of skills: researching the supernatural. Usually it was small things— helping families or individuals find new packs, finding out information about pack ties to land, the occasional Spark that needed a mentor to become a proper Emissary. He would sometimes get urgent requests about a rogue witch or kanima– those were his favorite cases but he was starting to appreciate emissary cases more now that he was learning himself. He found himself scrolling through pictures of teenage Sparks and their Mentor Emissary. It was strange, now. Most of the Emissaries were around Stiles’ age or a few years older. It made him feel like he was behind even though he’d just learned about his abilities.

Stiles sighed, chewing his lip. The small noise caught Derek’s attention. He was starting to gain an aptitude for guessing Stiles’ thought from noises, even without chemosignals.

“You are doing all you can. You can’t change the things in life that left you where you are,” Derek said, starting the mantra Stiles would repeat when he felt like he was falling behind. “You—”

“— are ahead of some and behind others. It doesn’t speak to my worth, just my experiences,” Stiles repeated with him. It had originally been something he'd told the freaked-out teen sparks he placed but he'd started applying it to himself too. He leaned back in the rolling chair and rubbed his face. “I need a nap,” Stiles muttered.

Stiles got up and walked over to the bed and Derek flicked the light switch off, still sat reading via werewolf vision. He tried to, at least. He kept finding his eyes wandering to Stiles. 

Today was one of the times where the pack was busy. Scott, Lydia, Kira, Jackson, and Isaac had work. Ethan was out of town visiting family that Stiles had helped him get into contact with, but he would be back soon. Liam was cramming for a test with Mason. Malia was god knows where, hopefully not getting arrested. 

That left Stiles in a cold bed, pretending he didn’t miss the warmth of his friends, and Derek, keeping his distance because he didn’t want to make Stiles uncomfortable. Stiles pretending didn’t do him any good, he reeked of loneliness. 

Stiles shivered and Derek put his book aside. Derek stripped off his clothes, shifted into his full wolf form, and jumped in the bed. 

Stiles lifted the blankets for him with a smile and covered them both. Stiles pulled the wolf close and ran his fingers through his fur. He sighed, moving as close as he could to take in the warmth. 

Derek was happy he could be there for Stiles but he didn’t think Stiles wanted him, so he always shifted into a wolf so Stiles could pretend he was just a dog if he wanted to. He thought Stiles deserved to be happy, he just didn’t think he made Stiles happy. He wanted to be there, to help, but he feared it was just the Nemeton magic. Derek constantly wondered if he could trust his own feelings because of it. The Nemeton had made him feel safe, was this the same? No. he knew it wasn’t but the fear of admitting it… It was safer to say it was the Nemeton magic, nothing else.

“How are you so soft,” Stiles asked, the end of his sentence rising in a yawn. “I thought wolves had coarse hair. Maybe it’s a werewolf thing…” 

Stiles yawned again, closing his eyes. He was trying to fall asleep as thoughts raced through his head. His wide range of thoughts made the room heavy with different chemosignals. It made Derek wonder what was going on in Stiles’ brain but, then again, did he really want to know? 

He thought up as many suicide missions are he did successful plans, not to mention the number of times he’d been right about who the evil of the week had been. How much did he think about who it was? Who many suspects did he start with? What about when Stiles himself was the bad guy? It had to have destroyed him. How do you ever come back from that? Derek laid next to Stiles, thinking about what he had said to Deaton the night he got his power. Why wouldn’t Stiles tell them he was hurting so badly?

Three hours later Lydia showed up at the house and flopped down in the bed next to Stiles. An hour after her, Liam made himself cozy in the bed, so brain dead from studying someone should have called his time of death hours ago. Mason joined in reluctantly, knowing he’d be squished later. Then Scott, Kira, and Isaac made their way in, somehow managing to squeeze into the bed. Once again, Derek ended up on Stiles’ chest. It wasn’t long before Jackson showed, wiggling his way into the pile of bodies after a shitty day. Finally, Malia made an appearance and was sent to the shower before being allowed anywhere near the bed.

Stiles had been drifting in and out of sleep as his friends– his family– piled in the bed. It was ridiculous, the eight of them piled on a full size mattress. It seemed to be all elbows and knees as people moved but it was always the best sleep Stiles got. Even with so many of them, it was obvious they were one person short, like missing a limb. Lydia was in Ethan’s spot and Liam was in Lydia’s, which meant Mason was shoved into Liam’s place. Jackson was still, somehow, in his place. Malia was in Mason’s spot and Malia’s stop was empty! Because so many people weren’t in the usual spot, Kira kept getting elbowed by Malia so Scott switched her places. As much as Stiles loved Scott, he was not enjoying having Scott’s crotch shoved against his leg.

Ethan would get a kick out of knowing how much they needed him for group naps, Stiles would have to call him later.

“Hey guys,” Stiles huffed, having taken an elbow from Lydia to the side, “I hate to say it but this isn’t working.” Someone rolled over, hitting wolf-Derek, rolling him off Stiles to land heavily on Scott, who– in turn– tried to lay on his back and ended up half on top of Kira while also shoving her against the wall.

Scott groaned, pushing Derek back onto Stiles. “No joke,” he groaned.

“All right,” Kira said, pushing Scott off her, “the person on the bottom says ‘GET UP’!!!”

If they thought cramming people on the bed was a feat, getting them off was an encore. Multiple times, they were seconds away from toppling over and squishing each other on the floor. They managed to get everyone separated long enough to breathe, except Stiles who still had wolf- Derek firmly planted on his chest.

Stiles tried to move Derek. He managed to move the wolf about two inches before he gave up. “Jesus, Derek! You weigh more than I do,” Stiles grumbled.

Mason hummed and threw in, “full grown male wolves can weigh up to a hundred and eighty pounds.”

Liam groaned, sitting on the floor and rubbing his head. “Shut up! No more facts or my head will explode!”

“You do know who’s house you're at, right,” Lydia asked, from her place sitting at the edge of the bed. “Random facts are Stiles’ specialty.”

“I thought we were going to take a nap,” Liam said in an almost pitiful tone.

Isaac gave Liam a look, practicalling asking if he was being serious. He was perched on Stiles’ desk, his feet on the arm of the desk chair that Jackson had taken over. “You are so dramatic,” Isaac scoffed, pulling a cutie orange out of Stiles’ snack bucket.

“And you’re a bitch,” Liam quipped back. “What’s your point?” 

“Point is I’m going to bend you like a pretzel,” Isaac said and Malia snorted a laugh.

“Oh my god, get a room,” Lydia groaned, earning disgusted looks brom Liam and Isaac. 

There was a jumble of “what? gross!” and  “him and me? Lydia!” followed by a lot of laughing throughout the room. 

Stiles’ had no clue what was going on and just hoped there would be no more blood on his carpet. He was still trying to move wolf-Derek so he could sit up. Kira finally took pity on Stiles and helped him move Derek– growling the whole time– so he could sit up. Stiles shoved pillows behind himself to lean back on while still being mostly upright, there was no way he was going to be able to scoot up the bed with Derek’s growly ass still laying on him. 

When he was finally able to, Stiles stretched and grabbed his phone. He tried to turn it on but his phone was completely dead. He looked around the room full of suspects. It was strange, they didn’t have a pack night or meeting so why were they all here? He decided it was unimportant.

“Dude, could you can it will the rottie-rumble bullshit,” Stiles scoffed, poking at Derek's exposed teeth. “Anyone know what time it is,” Stiles asked and Lydia unlocked her phone. She showed him the time and Stiles’ eyes went wide. “Shit! I was supposed to meet Deaton five minutes ago!”

This was apparently all it took for Derek to get up. 

Stiles jumped out of bed and rushed to get ready. He was trying to pull socks on and started to topple. Isaac was closest and grabbed Stiles before he made a crash landing on the floor. In his haste, Stiles forgot his spell books– Lydia grabbed them– and his keys– Scott grabbed those– and his snack bag– which Derek grabbed. They all made it to the jeep at about the same time. Keys were given to Stiles, books went in the snack bag and Lydia got in the jeep with the bag. 

Stiles heard the zipper of his snack bag open and Lydia sighed. “There is a single pack of fruit snacks in here,” Lydia said.

“Oh ya, I was meaning to refill it,” he muttered, preparing himself for a long next few hours.

“Stiles, this isn’t good! You could pass out or worse,” Lydia scolded. 

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I just won’t push myself as much.” 

Lydia scoffed and rolled her eyes. Lies. He never did anything less than one hundred percent. Knowing that, Lydia felt unprepared. She’d never deal with Stiles when he completely crashed. Scott and Derek were the ones who did that. When Stiles had started overworking himself, Lydia always had a snack bowl nearby that she could pull snacks from to throw at him. Lydia was fully confident she could force feed him until he came too, she just didn’t know if she’d be able to carry his dumbass back to the jeep were he to pass out.

They parked and jumped out of the jeep, a total of ten minutes late. She followed Stiles into the vet’s office and listened as Deaton gave him a backhanded lecture about being on time. It wasn’t going to have an effect, Stiles was never on time and not for a lack of trying. It was a time-blindness thing.

Deaton had Stiles working on defensive spells. In other words, he was throwing balls of paper at Stiles while he tried to make a magic shield to block them. They stopped when he managed to successfully block all of them and Stiles ate the last pack of gummies. When they started working again, Deaton offered some of the paper balls to Lydia under the guise that he might need to block two attackers at once. 

Stiles got hit in the face with a lot of paper. 

“Okay, stop it. I need a break,” Stiles said, managing to catch one of the paper balls and throw it back at Lydia.

“I’ll stop when you stop five in a row,” Lydia said, throwing two at once. 

Stiles blocked one but the other hit him in the eye. “Fuck! Okay, stop.” he said more forcefully, one hand left up to block while the other covered his eye. 

Paper balls were still being thrown, this time being aimed lower to hit him in the chest. 

Stiles groaned in irritation. He stood up quickly. “FUCKING STOP!”

The lights blew, launching sparks, and the paper balls all went up in flames with his words. Lydia yelped, dropping the flaming paper and looking up at Stiles. She had been shocked when the paper caught fire but looking at Stiles sent fear through her. 

Stiles– sweet, harmless Stiles– had pure white eyes. Heavy dark circle grew under his eyes in seconds. His pale skin was damp with sweat and he was visibly shaking. A sick smile was set on his lips. It seemed to quirk up into a smirk when Lydia looked at him fearfully. It was like facing the Nogitsune all over but worse. This actually was Stiles. Lydia felt herself scream and, as quickly as it started, it was gone. 

Stiles looked at Lydia, lost. Then he started to fall. Lydia watched it all happen in slow motion. Stiles getting closer to the floor. The door burst open. The wolves staring. Derek shoving past them. Derek grabbing Stiles' arm. Stiles screaming in pain. Derek landing on the floor. The crunching of glass. Derek pulling Stiles into his lap. 

Derek’s frantic voice brought Lydia back to reality, “what happened?”

Lydia shook her head, not sure of anything any more.

“It seems Mr Stilinski has a higher aptitude for magic than I previously realized,” Deaton said, rolling a chair over for Lydia, giving her time to breathe. 

“What does that mean,” Scott asked from the door.

“Strong emotions strengthen magic. When those emotions rise at the same time as a serge of magical energy, the magic will act on emotion and not thought.” Deaton walked over to his desk and grabbed a juice box and an apple. “He was attempting to create a magical shield and lost control. He was angry and his magic acted on his feelings instead of thoughts.” He gave the juice to Derek, “see if you can get him to drink this.”

Stiles started to wake up and absently drank whatever was given to him. 

He wasn’t aware of anything until after they were in the jeep and halfway to the home. He wasn’t even aware enough to realize he was in Derek’s lap as Lydia drove the jeep. Roscoe, as much as Stiles loved the jeep, did nothing to help Stiles’ nausea.  

It was a regular occurrence that someone had to drive Stiles home after these little work sessions. Most of the time he was dead tired. On days where he forgot his snack bag or it was empty, he was shaky, dizzy, and had a pounding headache. When he had zero food after he’d done magic, he’d sweat through his shirt and still feel ice cold, his anxiety would skyrocket and get really bad brain fog. 

Stiles had had days where he overdid it but this was the first time he passed out. He’d overdone it and was feeling the effects hardcore. He was shaky and dizzy and nauseous– he felt like throwing up everytime they turned or hit a bump. His head felt like it would explode from the migraine he had.

“I wanna die,” Stiles muttered, feeling like he’d been hit by ten tractor trailers all at once.

Lydia scoffed, trying to push down her own worry. “Then maybe you should have refilled the snack bag,” she tisked.

Stiles flinched when Derek growled behind him and damn did that hurt. Stiles’ breathing spiked from the pain of moving too quickly. Derek was still growling and Stiles found it… something– a thought he’d criticized himself for and overthink when he didn’t feel like throwing up all over everything.

“His magic lows have the same symptoms as Hypoglycemia,” Lydia told Derek, not taking her eyes off the road. “He’s lucky Deaton had juice for him or we’d be heading to the hospital again.”

“Just drive,” Derek grumbled, keeping his attention on Stiles. 

He brushed the hair off Stiles's forehead, feeling how sweaty he was. He hated that he couldn't do anything to help. He hated that Stiles was suffering, even if it was caused by his own stupidity.

Derek carried him upstairs and laid Stiles in bed. He tucked him in and sat on the edge of the bed. Stiles was falling asleep. Every sign was there– the random comments, slowing heart rate, his nose scrunching as he started to dream– and Derek noticed each one. 

No, it wasn’t just the Nemeton’s influence. He was falling for Stiles. 

He pushed Stiles' hair out of his face and frowned. He used to think Stiles was just a skinny defenseless human but he was so much more. He was smart and funny and sarcastic and far from being defenseless. He was a spark, a future emissary, and very, very powerful. 

Derek’s hand slipped away from Stiles and he stood up. He could hear the others. Scott, Isaac, Liam, and Lydia came up to Stiles' room. 

Lydia laid down next to Stiles without hesitation. She was scared, had been since it happened, and having the bit of normalcy they’d created was comforting. Isaac and Liam bickered back and forth until Scott gave them a pointed glare, flashing his red eyes. They calmed down and played rock paper scissors to see who laid where. Liam won and took the opposite side of Stiles from Lydia. Isaac laid down with a huff but relaxed quickly in the warmth of his friends.

“Are you going to join us,” Scott asked. “There’s enough room so you don’t have to fully shift.” Derek didn’t answer and Scott frowned. “What’s up, man?”

“I’m going for a run,” Derek said, heading for the window. He watched the mountain ash line break for him and went out, not stopped to look again. He knew the line reformed behind him. Normally he'd look back just to see how amazing it was but he knew if he looked back, his heart would rip for leaving Stiles when he was ill.

He repeated to himself: Stiles doesn’t want you. You’re just a fill in. He doesn’t need you.

After writing this, I realized I basically had Stiles cast fireball in a small room full of his allies. ANYWAY…

[authorsarahswartzsworld]

Can’t believe it’s been a 14 years since The Last Song was released and we were introduced to Miley and Liam’s relationship for the first time!

[movienized-com]

Bring Him to Me (2023)

Bring Him to Me (2023) #LukeSparke #BarryPepper #SamNeill #RachelGriffiths #LiamMcIntyre #JamieCosta Mehr auf:

Jahr: 2023 (September) Genre: Krimi / Thriller Regie: Luke Sparke Hauptrollen: Barry Pepper, Sam Neill, Rachel Griffiths, Liam McIntyre, Jamie Costa, Zac Garred … Filmbeschreibung: Auf Befehl eines skrupellosen Gangsterbosses muss ein Fluchtwagenfahrer gegen sein Gewissen ankämpfen und ein ahnungsloses Crewmitglied zu einer Hinrichtung aus dem Hinterhalt fahren. Es liegt eine lange Fahrt vor…

[moviesandmania]

BRING HIM TO ME (2023) Reviews of Barry Pepper crime thriller

Bring Him to Me is a 2023 crime thriller in which a getaway driver must drive an unsuspecting crew member to an ambush execution. There is a long drive ahead… Directed by Luke Sparke (Devil Beneath red-edit of Red Billabong; Occupation: Rainfall; Occupation; Red Billabong) from a screenplay written by Tom Evans. Produced by Carly and Carmel Imrie. The Australian Sparke Films production stars…