#Sterek wip

[hedwig221b]

WIP Whenever

Requested by the loveliest @emmmna, here's a small bite of my sterek twilight au

Derek’s smile was light. He reached out, thoughtlessly it seemed, and pulled the string of Stiles hoodie from where it was caught under his shirt. He worried it between his fingers, then looked up.

“What?” Stiles asked with a tentative smile.

“Promise me you won’t go into the woods alone.”

Derek’s quiet and serious tone made the jokes stick in Stiles’ throat.

“Are there… other creatures?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah,” said Derek, and, just like that, the smirk was back in place. “Like, twenty mountain lions.”

“Oh, come on…” Stiles groaned.

“What did you think I was going to say? Vampires?” Derek snorted. “Beacon Hills is our territory, baby.”

“Dang it,” Stiles pursed his nose, trying to hide how much ‘baby’ affected him (very much). “There goes my dream of someone sucking my—”

Suddenly, Derek tensed. His head swiveled up, his gaze zeroing in on the road behind Stiles’ shoulder. Alarmed and mentally preparing for his dad’s interrogation, Stiles followed Derek’s gaze but saw nothing and no one.

He frowned. “Wha—”

“I gotta go,” Derek said, more annoyed than afraid. He smiled apologetically at Stiles and hopped off the porch. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay?”

Derek hesitated, staring at him with an almost pained expression.

“Fuck it,” he cursed, then flew up the porch.

Stiles froze in place, fully expecting to be kissed right this fucking second.

Hot hands cupped his neck, sending shockwaves down into his heart. Stiles stared at Derek, his eyes wide and his soul trembling in anticipation.

But Derek didn’t kiss him.

He rubbed Stiles' neck in firm, deliberate moves. If he had put just a tiny amount of his strength into the touch, he would’ve choked Stiles. Thumbs swiped over the sharp line of his jaw, then down, caressing his wildly beating veins. The heels of Derek’s palms pushed into Stiles’ clavicles and at the same time pinned him to place.

The heat filled Stiles’ cheeks, his whole face and neck. Standing in front of the predator, whose existence he couldn’t even dream about, between fight and flight, he couldn’t help but fawn.

No one held him like this. No one cared to. And if someone did, there was a big chance that Stiles would’ve fought out of the hold, swept by panic and anger.

Now, he wanted nothing more than to bare his neck.

Derek’s hands shook when he released Stiles. He swallowed thickly, then glanced at the road, cursed under his breath, and ran off the porch. This time, he didn’t return, instead jumping into his car straight away. He drove off with a squeal of the tires and disappeared around the corner.

Stiles cleared his throat, finding it coated in desert sand. He lifted his hand to rub his flaming neck, froze it halfway, clenched it into a fist, and lowered it. He didn’t want to ruin… whatever it was.

[divider source]

Tagging gently 💛 @endwersed @patolemus @renmackree @salty-fryingpan @gege-wondering-around @dear-massacre @demonicfaerie @teencopandthesourwolf @eevylynn

[teencopandthesourwolf]

FUCK IT FRIDAY

i was tagged by the lovely @demonicfaerie (thanks, fae!) to share a current WIP so here's some of a mild blood kink slash beta shift derek slash frotting in the forest PWP kind of fic. it has the terribly imaginative working title of 'BLOODY MONSTER FUCKER STILES FULL MOON FIC' lmao.

this excerpt is SFW.

.

It's a balmy Tuesday evening in April when Derek realises he wants to taste Stiles's blood.

The notion comes to him not as some strange intrusive thought, or a guilty dream, or Anne Rice-induced moment of madness, but at the first scent and sight of it trickling down pale wrist bone and two large knuckles, to then drip from the tips of the boy's spider leg fingers.

Having neutralised the threat of what they thought might be a Vigilantes Oscuros but actually turned out to be a rogue Nagual, and once Derek satisfies himself by checking over and scenting the rest of the pack who are thankfully all mostly unscathed, he stalks over to where Stiles is standing, his chest heaving with the aftermath of their victory.

“Hey, big guy, d'you wanna—”

He trails off when Derek takes the bleeding arm in both of his hands. He lifts Stiles's shirt sleeve and—sighing with relief at the injury being merely a flesh wound—begins to syphon off most of Stiles's pain.

Stiles answers by sighing his own breath of relief.

Derek hesitates, for one thrilling moment, before he's opening his mouth—only to quickly close it again as he clamps it around the sticky mess of Stiles's skin, Alpha-gaze never leaving big, brown Bambi eyes shining with the godly reflection of a full moon.

Stiles's mouth forms an ‘O’ shape and, surprisingly, the only other thing he has to offer Derek is an uncharacteristically quiet and breathy “Oh.” Derek boldly takes it as permission to start sucking at Stiles's skin with wild abandon, delighting at the gooey texture and unique flavour of the blood overwhelming his tongue and taste buds and feelings.

It's all at once that he hears Isaac’s wolf-whistle and Scott's, “Ew!” and Allison's, “Um?” and Lydia's, “Told you,” that she aims at Jackson, who just scoffs, and Derek doesn't need to be looking at Boyd to know that Boyd is looking at Erica to try and convince her not to say, “You owe me twenty dollars, babe,” smug as all fuck, which she obviously says anyway.

Derek growls, loud enough to feel Stiles's trembling in his teeth and for the rest of the gossipy pack to shuffle off through the trees before Derek can threaten to make them shuffle off this mortal coil if they don't.

Stiles's ever-sharp eyes—which had been darting faster than the dragonflies buzzing down by the lake, his gaze landing on one wolf, and then the next, as Derek's irritating pack let their irritating thoughts on the situation be irritatingly known—now find their way back to Derek's.

Derek is watching Stiles carefully. He's transfixed, actually, has been for the entirety of the exchange. Honestly, he doesn't think he could look away if he tried.

Bronze eyes blown wide, Stiles now licks at unbearably pink lips, slowly, his cheeks doing their best to match the hue.

Taking the action for what he hopes it is, Derek starts to suckle at the boy's skin some more, sampling his prize. After a moment he pauses, to swallow down the pool of tangy red gathered underneath his tongue.

Then he knows, deliciously knows, that Stiles's treacly blood tastes of sodium and iron, yes, but also like fresh earth and morning dew drops and mine.

Noticing that the kid's heart has picked up the pace to a speed even more Springbok than usual, Derek releases the vacuum of his claret-tinged lips with a resonating pop. The sound echoes defiantly around the small glade in the northern part of the preserve they're standing in, and Derek's wants to prance and preen.

The moon sings to him as he waits, impatiently, preparing to be challenged on what the human likely thinks of as shockingly beastly behaviour.

Only Stiles doesn't challenge it.

He doesn't say anything at all, weirdly, opting instead to brutally gnaw some more on that unbearably plump bottom lip, shiny eyes misting over as his chemo-signals spike and morph into something smoky-sweet, something that reminds Derek of incense and trailing mandevilla and sex.

Derek's vision shudders for a beat as his synapses fire ten to the dozen, causing his eyes to flash impossibly redder than red, the glare from them illuminating Stiles's elfin features in the gloom.

He looks, and feels, like magick.

With mouth watering and gums tingling, Derek perceives Stiles's inaction to mean he's maybe allowed to do the thing he really fucking wants to. Thinking fuck it, he decides to try his luck.

He hesitantly starts to lick, cleaning up the scarlet streaks staining Stiles's milky skin.

The boy's mouth falls open for a breathy sound to punch its way out of what Derek is now considering an incredibly biteable throat, and he smells only of pure desire.

Emboldened by these things, Derek starts lapping away in earnest at the trails of spilt blood, in long and deliberate strokes, flattened tongue running up and down, up and down, washing clean lean muscle and dark hair and those pretty peppered moles, and warming the cold pebbles of Stiles's gooseflesh as he goes.

Stiles keeps trying to swallow down the saliva Derek can hear flooding his mouth, his breath hitching and hiccuping with each lick.

Derek's mouth doesn't form an ‘O’ shape. Instead, his mind flickers with alluring and morish images as his animal instinct wills him to flop bonelessly into the scrub and roll around in the dirt and howl, howl, howl, all wild and feral and fierce. His nature is urging him for more; pleading with him to try; begging him to cry out his wants and desires to lead Stiles into the deep, dark indigo of the creeping night where Derek is most at home.

He's really not sure why, but for once in his woefully shitty life Derek just allows himself to agree with the voice saying fuck it in his head, and do exactly that.

So he howls, howls as he breaks the bones of dusk and selfishly and gleefully drags the sheriff's son down onto the damp, ash-laden ground of his dead family's land.

And Stiles—for all of his usual brashness and caustic pride—lets him.

.

(tags beneath the cut, play or nay. anybody else who wants to do the thing, pls just consider yourself tagged and have at it!)

@shealynn88 @novemberhush @greyhavenisback @raisesomehale @princecharmingwinks @ohhalefire @blue-eyedbeta @angela-feelstoomuch @evanesdust @jmeelee @thebigoblin @hedwig221b @isthatbloodonhisshirt

[honestlydarkprincess]

Last Line Tag!

tagged by @seaweed-water thank you!!

Derek watched as Stiles meticulously washed the blood off of him and he felt his heart race at the care in each swipe of the towel. He wasn’t used to this. When was the last time he’d had someone tenderly care for his injuries? Probably when his pack was still alive.

tagging: @bigfootsmom, @exhuastedpigeon, @haeva, @father-salmon, @underwaterninja13

@laurenttheninth, @holdmygum, @beyourownanchor6, @insecuregodcomplex, @anti-homophobia-cheese

@thiamsxbitch, @ksbbb, @hemlocksandfoxgloves

[dontcallpanic]

Several sentence Saturday

I was tagged by @all-or-nothing-baby undercover at @eddiestightywhities (which firstly made me laugh but then your WIP broke my heart - in the best way obviously!)

But I do actually have something to share. More from Lineman which is the post apocalypse au where Stiles highjacks the airwaves and Derek can't help but fall in love with the idiot. So here he is, being an idiot.

-------------

"Guys… guys… I fucking superglued my hands together. Seriously. Guys. What the fuck do I do?

I need my hands. I wasn't kidding about being attached to them. I mean I kinda was - but also I really fucking wasn't. How am I gonna do anything now?

I had to hit the big red button to broadcast with my face.

Fuck you, this isn't funny.

Okay it's kinda funny but seriously, seriously. What the fuck? How am I gonna eat? How am I gonna drink? Fuck, how am I gonna jack off? I have needs!

This is hell!

The fuck do you need superglue for anyway? This is the apocalypse right? Aren't you supposed to be out there making desert-proof suits out of car seats and safety pins? Superglue seems to be very… anachronistic if I'm being honest with you.

Whatever happened to sewing? Does nobody craft now?

I bet I could knit. I bet I would be an awesome knitter. I could totally bitch and stitch - if I could use my fucking hands!"

-------------------

Based on real life events when I tried to fix a steering wheel!

So tagging chief cheerleader @greyhavenisback (I desperately need to write some Derek soon.)

And then no pressure whatsoever tags to: @violetfairydust @gege-wondering-around @patolemus and anyone who sees this and wants to do it, use me as an excuse! Doesn't matter if we're moots or not!

[my85volvo]

Work in Progress!

(43,932 words, 50% complete. Time skip.)

Derek Hale had mixed feelings about his summer internship at the Beacon Hills Sheriff's Station. On the one hand, it was great to have a summer job before starting college in the fall, and it gave him the chance to explore his interest in police work. On the other hand, being an intern was apparently synonymous with being a babysitter, since keeping Sheriff Stilinski's 12-year-old son out of trouble was much more important than doing the actual work that he was hired to do.

Of course, there was no mention of this particular job responsibility during the interview process, or the entire morning he was filling out paperwork and getting trained on his first day. An officer named Tara had shown him around and explained what he would be doing for the next few months. The work seemed fairly straightforward; his summer would be dedicated to organizing various reports and permit approvals that had been neglected during the year.

Three hours into his first day on the job, Derek was starting to feel more familiar with the filing system for civilian complaints. There were 400 or so that had to be organized by department and date, and his goal was to have them sorted by the end of the week before moving on to event requests. He sat in a large, dusty room with a cracked concrete floor and a stained drop ceiling in the basement of the station. A metal table had been shoved into the corner and given a desk lamp as an afterthought, and two small, high windows struggled to illuminate the space from the east wall. The rest of the room was filled with storage shelves and filing cabinets with an unknown amount of disorganized reports inside of them. Derek suspected he would be spending most of his time here.

He was just starting to think about when he should break for lunch, when a Deputy he hadn't met yet came downstairs with a sheepish grin on his face. He was fairly tall, about 6 feet, with hazel green eyes and the air of a small-town rookie.

“Hey, you must be the new intern! Derek Hale, right? So glad to have you here. Looks like you're doing a great job so far.” The man stood in the doorway, still smiling, looking a bit awkward.

“Yeah, that's me,” Derek greeted him with a neutral wave of his hand.

“Oh, where are my manners? I'm Deputy Parrish. You can just call me Jordan. It's great to have you here.” Jordan didn't move from the doorway or offer a handshake. He just kept one arm propped up on the door frame, with his other hand out of sight.

“…thanks.” Derek responded, not quite sure what the man wanted. “Do you need me to work on something else? Because Tara told me to file–”

“No, no! Nothing else, you're doing great! Hey, have you met the Sheriff's son yet?”

Derek furrowed his brow, wondering why the hell he would meet the Sheriff's son. He hadn't even met the Sheriff yet.

“No?” 

“Well, this is Stiles,” Jordan said hurriedly. He pulled his hand out from where it was obscured behind him, holding onto the t-shirt collar of a young boy. The boy looked bored and a bit annoyed, but not terribly offended that the officer was pushing him into the basement with a stranger. “Stiles, say hello to our intern, Derek.”

Stiles was slouching and looking at the ground, at first. He looked young, maybe 10 or 11, with medium brown hair and pale skin. He wore a white t-shirt with the words ‘HULK SMASH’ in bold green letters on the front, and he carried a plastic bag with a spray bottle and roll of paper towels sticking out. When he looked up, likely intending to give only a cursory greeting, his eyes went wide and he straightened up immediately. There was something about Derek that set Stiles on edge, apparently.

Derek and Stiles looked at each other in silence, Derek confused by how awkward these introductions were, and Stiles seemingly too shocked to answer. Jordan pushed him forward a bit further, letting him go and giving him a light clap on the back. The physical contact seemed to have roused Stiles to answer.

“Umm, hey.” Stiles said quietly before turning his attention back to the ground. He began fiddling with the edge of his t-shirt, pulling on the hem and twisting it around his fingers. Even through the dim light of the records room, Derek could see that the kid was blushing. He must be shy or something. 

“Hi Stiles, nice to meet you,” said Derek with his best customer service smile. It was fake as hell, but he learned fairly early in life that people responded well to it. If this was the Sheriff's son, then Derek should probably make a good impression. He didn't want some brat complaining to his dad about the mean teenage intern, lest he be relegated to an even more monotonous task, if that were possible.

“Well, we all just love Stiles here,” Jordan said. Derek noticed that the Deputy's smile wasn't entirely genuine, but it didn't seem outright  ill-intentioned either. “He's like a little brother to us all. You might see him around the station now and then. Just know that no matter what he says, he is not allowed to go through any of the desks. They are locked for a reason. Also, try not to leave paper clips lying around.”

“Okay…” Derek responded. He was starting to get a bit suspicious of the boy's presence. 

“Right, so!” Jordan continued. “Stiles is going to be helpful today by dusting the records room. Because he does not want his father worrying about misplaced case files. Right, Stiles?”

Stiles took a deep breath and lightly toed the floor with one foot.

“Yes, okay, jeez.” Stiles said with a sigh and an eye roll.

“Great!” Jordan gave him another clap on the back. “Hope you don't mind keeping an eye on him, Derek. He'll stay out of your way, quietly, because he is well behaved.”

Derek got the distinct impression that Stiles was not, in fact, well behaved. At all.

“Wait, so how long is he–” Derek didn't get to finish his question, because Jordan was already heading toward the stairs. 

“Thanks man! You're doing great!” Jordan called from the hallway.

Derek sat stunned for a moment, processing what had just happened. A deputy had just dumped an unsupervised kid into his workspace. A kid who belonged to the Sheriff. The Sheriff, who could make his summer very unpleasant if he chose to. Derek was expected to ‘keep an eye on’ said kid. This was not part of the job description. Derek tolerated kids. Derek did not like kids. Especially kids that he was tasked with watching for several hours. And it wasn't even lunch yet.

[jade-bright]

These will probably be hella rare, but I wanna do it anyway

WIP of what I have named, "Conversations: with the Argents," and part of a series that I think will just contain all the "what if's" of the same age sterek au that's been brewing in my head

Sitting up from his relaxed position, Stiles replies, "I will take your request to my Alpha, and you may come by the Sheriff's station tomorrow around noon in order to get your answer." Chris nods, "Thank you." Then he stands and goes to collect his drinks before Lucia calls out that his order is ready. After handing over the tray with the two drinks to the hunter, she lets Stiles know it's gonna be another minute until his order's done. Stiles gives his thanks and pulls out his phone again to read any messages sent. Dad: If there's no update in 30 minutes, I'm sending an officer Derek: 15 and I'm going

[gege-wondering-around]

Several sentences saturday

ny beloved, precious @dontcallpanic was so sweet to tag me for this and I'll catch the bait by giving out a bit of a WIP in itself. (this is Part2 of this)

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In the unknown setting of the inside of his mind controlled by the fox, Derek had little chances to actually win against the spirit, who was more agile and fast in each of its movement, leaving the wolf stumbling on his legs after a hit or with a hit in the air from an attempted strike; Stiles wanted to give it a try himself to see if he could hit the Nogitsune, just because.

“Derek!” It escaped his mouth before he could put any filter on it, but it got no reaction from neither of the fighters, both perpetually busy with their useless, endless fight for nothing. Stiles sighed, shaking his head in the green atmosphere when he caught a glimpse of something in the corner of one eye.

“He doesn’t hear you, Stiles.” A phantom of another Nogitsune said as it stood by his side, unbothered and immersed in watching the fistfight going on before them both; Stiles instinctively backed off but the fox didn’t even care, just senselessly remained there without paying to the boy any of its usual unwanted attention.

A pair of green pools set calmly on him as the spirit turned to catch Stiles’ shocked expression, a small, sad smirk on its features as it talked with an unimpressed tone. “Don’t worry,” it assured, “he’s keeping me all to himself.”

Before Stiles could utter a word, something else caught their attention.

On the other end of the infinite space they were all in, Derek spit to the floor a gash of blood after his Nogitsune kicked him in the stomach with its knee; Stiles’ Nogitsune, still standing quietly by his side, watched the scene with a glee in its rotten eyes, content with the result of its own effort. The boy didn’t avert his gaze, trying to pass to the wolf his own strength with a stern, fierce look while his previous question was being hung in the air.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sure, it made sense given the actual comatose state Derek was in, but it interested Stiles to understand how that was even possible to begin with. How was the wolf holding off the fox?

The fox stood proudly to his side, both their eyes on the match as it spoke with a tender hint of possessiveness towards Derek; it made Stiles’ stomach flip as the next sentence exited those cruel lips he remembered whispering in his ears about his mother’s passing, how it was his fault. He wondered for a brief instance if that guilt game was still going on for Derek and he got an answer pretty quickly.

“He might be the stubborn, silent mule you threatened me with months ago…” Stiles gripped his teeth at the mention of their first encounter with Derek present as well, but listened regardless of the wave of anger in his veins. “But even if he doesn’t talk, he is surely willing to fight for eternity if it means keeping you safe,” before it finished, it smirked and licked its lips. “For once.”

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i wanna tag some of my lovelies cause ive missed them deerly and i wanna reach out to them, so once again, im catching the bait! softly tagging also for the several sentences game @patolemus @jadezdominion @seaweed-water @demonicfaerie @oldefashioned @meelopee

also, if there are any mistakes, you didnt see them

[competitioneddie]

Tidbit Tuesday for my sterek fic of doom

Have I been absent for three weeks? Why yes thanks for asking I'm loving working on my master's thesis on why representation on TV matters and being mean on Twitter is bad.

Incidentally, I cannot stress how badly I need a beta reader to bounce ideas around please message me I'm nice and totally normal about Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski.

There is a witch in the woods and, much like many other creatures drawn to Beacon Hills, she’s parched with a thirst can only be quenched through pain. She comes from a distant life she barely remembers, other than the rotten florals that follow her, so she hides in the evergreen.

Nobody knows this, but there is a witch in the woods. There has been, for quite some time now, trapped and desperate to find a vessel. It has to be perfect. It has to be someone, but it can't be anyone. She must be patient and find the perfect person, one that would go to the greatest lengths, who would trade a life for a life for a life.

It has to be perfect. She won't have it any other way.

At first, because this liminal space she inhabits is familiar in ways she cannot recall, almost out of a vision, known to someone else in some other time, she waits, she gets acquainted with everything that makes up the forest and the town and the bleeding sky in the heat of summer.

Eventually, she dips her feet in this strange place called Beacon Hills, roaming but never free, and she hides, carried in the crackling of dried leaves on a clear day. She glimmers in the cold waters of the lake, rippling and reveling in the soft waves that break the stillness of the surface. She simmers in the tarmac, under the roaring traffic, and hums inside the pipelines of the buildings downtown, and creaks along the wooden staircases of old Victorian homes and rustles through the gardens of the neat little rows of suburban white picket fence houses.

She waits. She listens and she sees, and she bides her time. She lurks around the graveyard, and she runs with the winds around the ruins of the Hale house after the fire dies down, howling mischievously to lure the wolves that used to run in the woods. She wails with the sirens on patrol cars, and she slithers under the hospital doors, hovering over the skin and bones of a battered, sleeping dog.

It must have been years, spent rotting away in the depths of her isolation, when the forest starts convulsing around her. There is a rogue wolf circling her territory. There is another, and then another, and another one. It doesn't stop. The hospital room is empty now and there's a corpse, but no other ghosts to keep her company among the trees. There is new blood and old blood, blood that awakens something primal in the woods, something hot white at the doors that separate this realm from others, something that pushes her and whispers in her ear that her time has come.

So she wakes. She wakes and she lies underwater, in the creek, carried away by the first rains of the season, biding her time, until the crisp autumn leaves start crunching under the trodden sneakers of the young and unaware. The wind is picking up and the sky is slowly bruising away into a clear sunset, and there are wolves but it's not quite right.

No, it's not right. It's not the wolves that have her squirming in the confines of her shapeless lifeform. It's not the wolves. So then it must be the boy. The boy. The boy, who steps on a pile of browning foliage and mud and falls flat on the loose soil around him, near the edge of the cold stream, hands scrabbling around clumsily.

A rock slides and drops into the water. The lazily swirling currents set in motion a tiny ripple that reaches beyond the blurry confines of the riverbed, lapping at the muddy bank and splashing away mischievously. The water takes hold, soaking through the thin, well worn material of his jacket. The wolves have dismissed him, but she hasn't.

She knows, it is him. A life, for a life, for a life. The boy, the wolf, the witch.

There is a creature, for lack of a better word, a presence that might be a fae, a ghoul, a spirit, a shadow that creeps and preys on the tiniest wisp of hope and sanity she can find.

There is a witch in the woods.

She learns, she plots, she waits. She finds the perfect vessel.

And then, she shows her hand.

[definitively-different-drivel]

Yep.

I accidentally a whole ficlet. Just under 1k of Derek being grumpy but begrudgingly letting Stiles drag him in to the whole bonfire with his pack thing. Also involves thoughts of family/good memories on Derek's part. Ends with Stiles conking out against him with everyone else gone for the evening.

I'll probably edit it and post it today or tomorrow. Here's a taste of my first draft:

Derek peered out at his pack as they spread out around the bonfire. Erica and Boyd ground against each other to the beat of some godawful techno band. Lydia twirled in flats as Jackson's eyes tracked the way the light reflected off her hair. Allison's back was to him, but Scott's goofy love-addled grin flickered in the evening air as she laughed, curling in on herself in delight.  He ignored the distracting movement of Stiles as he danced beside Issac's begrudging form. The acrid notes of chemicals embedded within treated wood evoked, in his mind, the scent of burning flesh, but none of that flickered across the clearing. Instead, the smell of clean, clear, deadfall woodsmoke flowed through the clearing. Derek's mind drifted back, pulled by the plumes dancing along the soot-sodden breeze. He stood there, leaning against a tree as the faintest edge of firelight cast bush-shadows across his dark blue jeans. Moonlight played upon his mother's graying hair as she smiled. Laura's boombox crackled out Beach Boys from an old cassette Cora scrounged from some cursed corner of their home. His aunt whispered something beneath the crackle of the flames. Peter laughed, languid and loose as his disgusting rowan whiskey reflected the warm light of the fire. His father twirled Talia in circles on the hard-packed ground, heedless of Laura and Cora's music-based bickering in the background. The air was warm, the moon hung, huge and heavy and inviting in the sky as Derek stood apart, watching his family frolic in the evening air. A hand on his wrist wrought his thoughts away from the scene...

[renmackree]

Trick or treat!!!

Hello lovely,

I'm only working on the one wip, so I'll give just a LITTLE more from a different part

“Oh, haha, very funny. Even in your old age, you’re still a Sourwolf.” Stiles was now flipping through the album artwork on his playlist, trying to figure out the first song to play while ignoring his family’s protests. 

“Sourwolf is new,” Eli pointed out, “I don’t think you’ve called him that before.”

“He has. Almost 25 years ago, in the parking lot of Beacon Hills High School. You just weren’t around yet.” Derek turned down the road, barely paying attention to the conversation and instead focusing on the drive. “Seems he’s run out of names to call me.”

“I didn’t know you guys went to high school together,” Eli pointed out. He tried to calculate how long ago it would have been and realized they were talking about 2011. Almost seven years before he was even conceived. Or adopted. Or born. Honestly, he didn’t know how he came to be. Whenever he asked his parents, they just said they found him in a tree or magic – which Eli only half believed.

Stiles snorted, bringing Eli’s attention back to the conversation at hand. “We didn’t. We were trying to find the rogue Alpha, and I had the most amazing idea of using the school broadcasting system to lure him. Your Dad wasn’t impressed.”

“I got stabbed, Stiles,” Derek warned. 

“Stabbed? By who?” Eli asked and leaned forward in the seat with a grin. For once, this might not be a boring car ride after all. He was told bits and pieces about their time in Beacon Hills through the years – Derek getting shot and Stiles almost cutting his arm off, Scott being bit by a rogue Alpha, something about sacrifices and de-aging – But nothing more than the basics or stories others told. His parents had always been tight-lipped regarding certain events from their past and even about things that happened when Eli was younger. He knew it was their way of protecting him, but it got old fast. 

“No one.”

“Your great Uncle Peter.” 

[hedwig221b]

Got tagged by wonderful people @patolemus, @demonicfaerie and @teencopandthesourwolf to share a wip, so here is a piece of my sterek twilight au (I'm going insane)

Stiles opened the door and was about to step out, when Derek called him.

“Stiles?”

He turned his head back, only to realize that Derek was very very close.

Stiles’ breath caught, his heart frozen in the sugar coating of trembling anticipation.

The sharp point of Derek’s nose touched his cheek, lighter than the wind. He inhaled deeply, taking the greedy lungfuls of Stiles’ scent into his body. Stiles fought the shiver at the thought of it seeping into Derek’s lungs, traveling with his blood, making Derek think of him, staying with him even when they were apart. It was a feral thought, new but so strong and lustful that it made his head spin from how pleasant it was.

Derek’s eyes fluttered open. His pupils were huge, with the thinnest thread of red wrapped gently around them.

“Sleep well.” His voice was a murmuring thunder.

Stiles swallowed against a dry throat, nodded, and got out of the car.

He walked in a daze to his house, his heart left in that damn Camaro. He stuttered through a weak explanation about his bruise to his Dad (he had to tell Lydia and Allison that he defended them from bad guys just so they knew), and stumbled upstairs.

The room was dark as he walked in. The soft light of the full moon lit the square on the carpet just below the window.

Stiles took a couple of minutes to glance over his makeshift board. With his lips set and his heart thundering in his ears, he tore it all away, leaving scraps of tape stuck to the wall. He then took a fresh sheet of paper, glued it to the wall, and wrote one word in bold black letters.

Werewolf

Stiles stared at it. The word glared back at him, standing out harshly against the white.

He capped the marker, tossed it onto the table, and took off his clothes. Thoughts swarmed his head the entire time, all at once, different and scary. The life and the death, the moon and the ocean, the secrets and their reveal. The thread of red wrapped lovingly around the black depths.

Derek.

Stiles thought about him the most. Something told him that it wouldn't be the last time, far from it. He thought about Derek's softness and his open desire to kill. Stiles’ hands remembered the heat of his hands. His neck longed to feel the coating warmth of Derek’s breath. His lips burned from the kiss that never happened.

Everything was so fucking complicated.

Except one thing.

It was the only clear thought in his head. The one that made his stomach clench from fear, his heart stutter from hope, and his lips stretch in a smile.

He was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Derek.

[divider link]

[teencopandthesourwolf]

If he were to be true to himself, which he generally isn't when it comes to this shit, Derek knew he was fucked the very first time he met Stiles Stilinski—no, actually, that's not entirely accurate. It was before that. He was fucked the second he smelled the kid's unique scent hitching a ride on the damp breeze that cut through Beacon Hills preserve on that fateful day, just over two years ago, when Derek stood on his family's land and tapped a claw against the plastic casing of the inhaler he'd found. The inhaler he'd sniffed out from the undergrowth in the middle of the night. The inhaler sitting inside the pocket of his dead Dad's leather jacket that he'd recovered from the ruins of his childhood home. The inhaler he'd returned the day after he played pretend with himself that it had been him who had bitten Scott McCall.

Derek has been playing pretend ever since.

But how is he supposed to pretend now, with the rogue piece of Stiles's clothing screwed up in his fist and him finally home alone in his own apartment? Worse (or better) is the fact that it's the kid's favourite beloved hoodie, the one he wears all the goddamn time which Derek can tell hasn't seen the inside of a washing machine in a while because of the way it reeks of nothing but pure, unadulterated Stiles.

Stiles's red, red hoodie.

Derek's eyes flash blue to remind him of who he is, at the same time as his fangs drop and his short nails extend into yellowed claws. Absently, he thinks of Little Red and The Big Bad Wolf when his form shifts, his resolve shattering like mirror glass as he accepts his seven years of bad luck with grace the moment he shoves his face into the fabric, now releasing that throaty groan that turns to a low growl then into a sex-hungry, shuddering snarl.

He inhales.

Deep; deeply; deeper.

And Derek is lost to Stiles, forever.

.

(from my current sterek WIP fic—let me know in the comments if you'd like to be tagged when it's up!)

[honestlydarkprincess]

WIP Wednesday!

tagged by @theotherbuckley, @haeva <33333

okay i've already shared this in parts through the wip game but here have a lil snippie from stiles didn't know they were dating

“I’m sorry,” Stiles rushed out, unable to take the tense silence anymore. He wanted to be eloquent, to explain himself in a way that made sense but the words burst forth before he could stop them.

Derek sighed heavily. “It’s fine. Obviously I misread things. I think it would be best if you left, though. I need— I need some time.” His voice broke at the end and Stiles felt sick.

“I can’t— not yet,” He murmured, staring at Derek. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

Derek laughed bitterly. “Yeah, there was. I thought we were dating. We weren’t. You made that quite clear this afternoon.”

“No, you don’t understand—” Stiles tried again, only to be cut off.

“I understand, Stiles,” Derek said tiredly. “I really think it would be best if you just left, okay? I’m not mad at you. I really just need some time.”

“No, I’m not leaving,” Stiles said firmly.

“Stiles—”

This time Stiles was the one to cut Derek off. “I’m in love with you!”

The silence was deafening. Stiles could almost hear the wheels turning in Derek’s head.

tagging: @bigfootsmom, @lonelychicago, @father-salmon, @underwaterninja13, @eddiebabygirldiaz

@thiamsxbitch, @hemlocksandfoxgloves, @fruchtfliege, @ksbbb

@beyourownanchor6, @rathockey, @usersiren, @holdmygum, @darrys-laundry

@shyaudacity, @vanmarkus, @devirnis, @maygrantgf, @exhuastedpigeon

[dontcallpanic]

The seriously endlessly talented @teencopandthesourwolf tagged me to do WIP Wednesday and it's been so long I really wanted to share something so thank, you thank, you diolch yn fawr iawn 💙 the problem is i have no time to edit so you're gettin this raw!

Hope you enjoy! It's from my post apocalyptic sterek au, Lineman, vaguely based on the song Wichita Lineman and it's about Derek slowly falling in love with Stiles' through his pirate-radio show.

----------

“So, how's it going, new best friends. Yup. I'm Still here. Oh wait you can't see that… I’m doing jazz hands! 

Do you still have jazz hands here? Do you still have jazz? Wait… do you still have hands? 

Please tell me we still have hands? The jazz I can live without but the hands… I'm pretty attached to the hands.

Hey, D'you remember the old radio shows? Do you still have radio shows? I mean apparently you do now - if this even counts. Maybe I should like, make this official. Hey! I should sing my own jingle. Hah it's not like you can stop me! Heh - speak now or forever hold your peace. What's that? Hah nope sorry… I can't hear you!

So now that that's decided, what else do you guys want? Do you even care about the weather? I mean it's not changed that much in… days. Like, is it always sunny here? I mean I can cover it y'know. It's reassuring, daily check in like, guess what?- the sun's still here! Woooo!

I'm doing more jazz hands by the way. We're gonna make this a thing! We're bringing jazz hands back!

Oh and while we're at it, do you even have traffic to report on? Let me know!

Oh how, you ask? Well my fine freaky friends like this!

Okay that didn't work so well. Gimme a minute.

So maybe if you…huh… can you even broadcast on the same frequency as me while I'm transmitting?

Ummm I don't even know what frequency this is going out on. I should probably find that out. Hah. Yeah.

Oh. Okay. Do that aga…

… etimes… I can almost…

Fucking lost it. Wait. Hang on sometimes if I just do this I can…

Oh wait…shit.

Shit…

I don't feel so good…"

There's a sound like hands scrambling that quickly turns into something garbled as if the microphone has just been dropped underwater. Something crashes to the ground and for a split second there's a high pitched warble like the capacitor has slipped then the broadcast cuts out. Nothing but the familiar hush of static.

Derek slowly straightens from where he's been fixing the mast and stares perplexed at the radio.

The fuck was that?

He narrows his eyes as if he could glare the radio into answering before he runs a greasy hand across his forehead and jumps down. His feet make a gentle thump, dust among the sand billowing up around his boots. Derek is in no hurry but he is deeply, endlessly curious.

It's not escaped his notice that the frequency was different this time. That voice - whoever, whatever it is, clearly has access to proper broadcast equipment. The old kind. The kind nobody should have anymore. Which is exactly what he suspected last time but this is just further confirmation.

His mouth is a grim line as he stares thoughtfully at his radio. He should probably start trying to trace the transmission sometime but, this is big news. It's only just a matter of time before someone pays him to get this information. He doesn't have to rush.

And yet.

That voice...

-------------

Tagging the cheerleader and inspiration provider for this fic @greyhavenisback

And then Very gentle no pressure whatsoever tags to: @patolemus @violetfairydust @gege-wondering-around and @oldefashioned (just cause I'm so excited to see you around again!)

[my85volvo]

Work in Progress!

(15,899 words, 95% complete, anyone want to beta read?)

The first time Stiles felt Derek's hand around his throat, he panicked. Not the kind of panic that would normally come when you suddenly can't breathe, or see razor-sharp teeth and glowing red eyes inches from your face, or feel pinpricks of clawed hands piercing your throat. It wasn't the kind of panic where he feared for his life. Stiles knew that Derek would never actually rip his throat out. It was weird to be pinned to the wall by an angry werewolf and feel safe despite the overwhelming evidence that he was one snarky comment away from a bloody death. But Stiles knew. He just knew that Derek wouldn't hurt him.

The real reason Stiles panicked had nothing to do with threats of death and everything to do with his very unexpected physical reaction. He panicked because every inch of skin the wolf touched felt like lightning shooting through his blood and pumping straight into his groin. He panicked because he had never gotten so hard so fast in his life, and if he didn't do something about the situation in his pants, then Derek would definitely notice. But most of all, Stiles panicked because he had never even considered the possibility of being attracted to another man, yet there he was, instantly in lust with a mysterious, broody werewolf. He didn't have much time to dwell on it, as the existence of supernatural beings was far more interesting and important. Stiles chalked up the experience to Derek just being supernaturally hot and that popping a boner was a completely normal reaction for a growing boy such as himself.

The second time Stiles felt Derek's hand around his throat, he reacted in a very similar fashion. Again, Stiles dismissed it as some sort of magic power that supernatural creatures possessed in order to help them pacify prey or something.

The third and fourth time it happened made Stiles start to think a bit harder about what the hell was going on with him. The fifth time it happened, he knew that werewolves could definitely smell arousal, and he wondered how the hell Derek just acted so normal about it. After the twenty-seventh time in 4 years, Stiles stopped questioning why he was looking forward to pissing off Derek, and he began questioning why Derek kept grabbing him, knowing it was a turn-on. He didn't grab anyone else by the throat for fun. Stiles felt a little special.

Inquisitive by nature, often to his own detriment, he decided he needed to know a bit more about wolves and scents and…other sensitive topics related to that. Derek tended to sneak in through the window at least twice a week, which was kinda weird already, so Stiles just had to wait until they were alone to ask some questions. That, and actually have the guts to do it.

[melioristicbeast]

What was my plan for the day: a quick warmup and get some work done on a comic project

What ended up happening: mid-panel i remembered this image, the demons overtook me and suddenly it’s 10pm ¯\_(ツ)_/¯