#Sterek wip

[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!)

[hedwig221b]

WIP Monday

Tagged by @dear-massacre and also @patolemus like ages ago. Welp, guess it's time for the last snippet before I post the final thing heh @hotgirlstiles

Stiles ruined him. The damage was irreparable. He didn’t want the food that wasn’t made by Stiles or shared with him; the water tasted stale; the clothes were asphyxiating and scratchy; the air was wrong, wrong without Stiles’ scent in it.

Deep into the charcoal night, with the moon drowning in wispy clouds, Derek paced around his house. His head snapped and froze at every sound. His fangs dug into his lower lip, and his eyes blazed with the blood that he yearned to taste.

It was a mistake to allow Stiles to stay the night. The wolf should never be apart from his mate. It was unnatural, wrong. He couldn’t fathom how Peter did it, but then again, Peter had been mated for a long time. His bite on Olivia kept him sane just as well as her bite on his neck. They had a kid. They felt the constant presence of a bond.

Derek had nothing.

Fucking nothing.

His whine mixed with a snarl. Derek stormed into Stiles’ bedroom, opened his wardrobe, and grabbed a fistful of his clothes. His claws caught on some of them as he pressed the fabric to his face and inhaled.

It was an echo of what he wanted. Not nearly enough.

With a furious snap of his teeth, Derek shoved the clothes back and marched out of the room, scraping his claws against the walls.

Fuck, what was wrong with him? How could that pretty little thing change him so much? He had an iron grip on his control before, being in tandem with his instincts. As soon as he thought of Stiles, though, of his scent, his moans, and the little wrinkle on his forehead as he orgasmed, his mind settled.

It was…

It was almost as if…

His anchor shifted.

Derek snarled. He closed his eyes and sank to the floor with his fingers gripping his hair. The white blobs danced in front of his eyes as he shut them.

Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.

Read full version here

Tagging gently @patolemus @endwersed @renmackree @salty-fryingpan

[dontcallpanic]

I wrote an actual drabble!!! And I'm so surprised I had to share it (before it turns into something longer!)

Stiles' fingers shake as he methodically wipes the blood off them, one by one. There's a detached calmness that's settled over him – he's in shock – and he knows what he needs to do next but he can't get his damn fingers to stop shaking. He almost drops his phone when he digs it out of his pocket. He's never been more grateful for speed dial he thinks before holding the phone to his ear. It sounds far too loud in the oppressive silence. One. Two. Three. “Stiles?” He lets out a breath. Everything's going to be okay.

[honestlydarkprincess]

Many Sentences Sunday!

tagged by @wikiangela <3

so here have a lil sterek wip from when i had my barbie hyperfixation and decided to make my blorbos experience it too (mostly just an excuse for pack bonding and general silliness)

“I can be useful to the pack, you know I can, Derek! Maybe I’m like Elina and have the rainbow in my eye,” Stiles said, throwing up his hands. He was currently pacing around the loft as he tried yet again to get Derek to let him help with pack business.

“What does that even mean, Stilinski?” Jackson groaned, sitting up from where he had been leaning against Lydia on one of the many couches in the new and improved Hale loft. Erica and Boyd were sitting curled up on the couch opposite them with Isaac sitting on the floor at their feet looking adorably confused as he watched Stiles and Jackson.

Stiles gasped. “What do you mean what does that mean? Haven’t you ever seen Barbie: Fairytopia?”

Derek watched in amusement as Jackson looked at Stiles in disbelief.

“Do I look like I’ve watched Barbie Fairypia?” Jackson deadpanned.

“Fairytopia,” Stiles corrected, aghast. “This just won’t do. You have to watch them, they’re amazing. In fact you should watch all of the early Barbie movies.”

“You’re not going to force everyone to watch them like you did me, are you?” Scott asked from the floor where he was lying with his head in Isaac’s lap. Derek had noticed the two of them getting closer these days and while a part of him worried— Scott always seemed to have one foot out of the pack— he was happy that Isaac was happy.

“I’m definitely going to force everyone to watch them,” Stiles said, nodding his head like he had just come to the decision himself. “It’s part of one’s basic education. You can’t not watch the early days Barbie movies.”

tagging: @bigfootsmom, @lonelychicago, @monsterrae1, @eddiebabygirldiaz, @father-salmon

@underwaterninja13, @watchyourbuck, @the-likesofus, @thiamsxbitch, @ksbbb

@theotherbuckley, @eddiesbegins, @eddiediaaz, @exhuastedpigeon, @devirnis

@princessfbi, @dorkydiaz, @loveyouanyway, @agenttommykinard, @insecuregodcomplex

@remembertheskittles, @diazheartsbuckley, @bekkachaos, @shyaudacity, @swiftietartt

[exhuastedpigeon]

Omg please give me townie sterek!

I think I've talked about this one before like MONTHS ago.

Cape Cod Townie Stiles - he gets sent to a fancy prep school, Milton Academy after his mom dies. One of the last things she did before she died was get him into the school, but didn’t tell him, only his dad. She was from a rich family and met Stiles' dad summering with her family (his first year as a deputy).

The Hales always summer in the Cape and Stiles grew up kind of friends with Derek because there mom's were childhood friends and kept in touch. Derek and Stiles drifted once they were pre-teens.

The fic starts at the start of the summer. Stiles' mom died right around Christmas and he's still deeply mourning her. He has no idea he's going to a fancy prep school at the end of summer and he's just kind of existing.

Here's a little snippet from the first section.

Derek Hale looked good. That wasn’t surprising though, the Hale’s always looked good. They were notorious on the Cape for their looks and how much money they had. Stiles used to hang around with Derek when they were younger, his mom and Stiles’ mom had been friends growing up. As they got older Stiles and Derek had drifted even though their mom’s were still close.  “Derek,” Stiles said with a nod.  “Stiles,” Derek looked a little surprised to see Stiles at the shop. Stiles guessed that was fair, he hadn’t worked here the previous summer. “I - uh. Hi?” “Hi,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Let me guess, you want something gross like rum raisin.” “Chocolate,” Derek said, shoving his hands in his pockets as he spoke. “On a cone please.” “So polite,” Stiles said as he scooped the ice cream onto a cone. “I’m glad to see Milton Academy for People with Sticks Up Their Ass at least teaches you manners.” “I’m sorry about your mom,” Derek said quietly when Stiles handed him his cone. “I-I wanted to come to the funeral, but -” “Don’t worry about it,” Stiles avoided Derek’s eyes. “Four dollars.” Derek handed Stiles a twenty dollar bill and didn’t let go of it until Stiles looked up at him. Derek was really pretty, he always had been even when he hadn’t quite grown into his ears as a kid. His hazel eyes that almost seemed to change color with his mood and his smile had always been disarming. He wasn’t smiling now though, he just looked sad.  “Are you coming to the bonfire later?” “Maybe,” Stiles said. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t just tell Derek the truth, that he’d be there and he’d sit quietly on a log while Scott made a fool of himself trying to impress Alison Argent. Stiles had been quiet lately, that was the biggest change since his mom died.  “Hopefully I’ll see you there,” Derek said just as quietly as Stiles. “My mom wants you and your dad to come over for dinner soon too.” “She’s got his number,” Stiles said and tried to hand Derek his change, but he shook his head. Stiles dropped it into the tip jar.  “See you later then,” Derek said, walking out of the ice cream shop with his cone in hand.  It wasn’t until the door had closed behind him that Stiles had time to wonder where Derek’s usual posse was. If there was one thing summer in the Cape could set their clock by was Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Derek Hale, and Danny Mahealani all being attached at the hip “I have so many questions,” Erica said once the outline of Derek had faded into the darkness of the night.  “And here I am, all out of answers,” Stiles said with a shrug. He looked down at his watch and smiled when he saw it was 11. He walked around the counter to lock the doors and started putting chairs up on the tables.

wip ask game

[theyjusthowl]

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.” 

[outtoshatter]

@satashiiwrites​ tagged me yesterday but I forgot to find a snip! So here’s some of Stiles dealing with stuff in Kingdoms Fall:

Stiles spent the next day in his rooms, reading old recorded visions. There were some sketches inside, which he found interesting. Most of the predictions were boring, things about money or trades, whether the current king would have an heir and what sort. Which fabrics, dress cuts, and hairstyles would be in fashion soon. Stiles wondered who asked for that, but there was no note of who requested each prediction.

He found a vague allusion to a threat from the Verdant Kingdom to the east, but there weren’t many details. The Seer who made the prediction was executed soon after as a traitor.

He rubbed his tired eyes and went to the balcony, opening the doors to let in some air.

It was a gloomy day, chilly with biting gusts of wind and almost no sunlight.

He left the doors open and sent for lunch, opting to eat in his reading room rather than socialize. While he waited, he read more records on the balcony, enjoying the brisk wind pulling through his hair like fingers. He found a prediction about an Argent heir dying young, but the entry was followed up by a contradicting vision.

“Were you lying, too?” he murmured to the book, to the Seer Bernardina Hardesty, whose name was listed under the last seven predictions he’d read.

He wondered about her and the others he found that had recanted their more unfortunate predictions, wondered if they, like him, were doing what they could to survive, or if they only cared about keeping their position here.

He closed the book with a snap. The idea infuriated him, that they were in his same position but happy about it, willing to risk King Gerard killing them just so they could stay in the castle, so they wouldn’t want for any petty desire they may have, any useless trinket or expensive clothing they could wish for. He had everything he could need here, but at the expense of his father, his own freewill, possibly his life if King Gerard got tired of him.

He would rather believe they just wanted to escape King Gerard’s wrath.

tagging to look or to participate: @raisesomehale, @quietborderline, @tkwritesdumbassassins, @missanniewhimsy, @fyeahsterek72, @rosieposiepuddingnpie, @spaceprincessem, @ladiekatie, @nerdy-stilinski, @ohhalefire, @pinkviper, @cephalog0d, @rxsterek, @halevetica, @evanesdust, @midnightwinterhawk, @nottoolateforthegame

[monsterrae1]

WIP 🚧 Wednesday

Tagged by @lostinabuddiehaze and since you’re also a sterek girlie this one’s for you:

Also tagged by @alyxmastershipper 🖤

The first time that Eli stole that beat up piece of crap Jeep, Derek found himself feeling more sadness than anger. Eli was 14 years old at the time, and almost crashed it right away as he tried to reverse out of the driveway; Derek had heard the engine struggle as Eli tried to change shifts and ran out of the house to find his son angrily trying to get it to do something. All that he had done was break the shift gear, but Derek hadn’t told him that. 

All he had done was stop him from doing any more damage by opening the door, and hold his teenage son against his chest and let him cry and cry against his chest. Eli was sad, mad, confused and he wanted to go home, home to his other dad, back to Georgia, back to Stiles. 

“Why?” He asked in between broken sobs “Why did he leave us, dad?” 

Derek hadn’t know what to answer, he hadn’t known how to explain to their perfect and sweet boy that they had struggled with their marriage for a long time, that they loved each other very very much, that Derek would always love Stiles, but he wasn’t going to force him to stay somewhere he didn’t feel loved anymore. 

Stiles had wanted more, and Derek couldn’t give him that. 

Tagging if they have anything they'd want to share @peaceofficerdiaz @katries @loveyourownsmiilee @spotsandsocks @the-likesofus @imeasyeitherway @bekkachaos @jacksadventuresinwriting @rogerzsteven @eddiediazisascorpio @dickley-buddie @prettyboybuckley @buddierights @swiftiediaz @shortsighted-owl @satashiiwrites and whoever sees this and wants to share anything

[teencopandthesourwolf]

writing a derek “i am so full of shame” hale self-loving smut fic featuring stiles stilinski's red hoodie is just sooooo fucking delicious istg he's like a catholic nun getting off with a statue of the virgin mary lol

[hedwig221b]

snippet sunday monday

tagged by wonderful @endwersed! thank you so much! this is a kinda long(ish) snippet from my @hotgirlstiles wip but I'm feeling generous

The alpha shook his head viciously as if shaking the order off. “Go fuck yourself, Hale! I swear I’ll kill you one day. You think you’re invincible, but—” he stumbled over his words, his eyes narrowed.

Derek, of course, sensed Stiles’ presence. He glanced at the omega who walked up quietly to the railing and pushed one of his hands around Derek’s elbow. His impenetrable gaze was focused on the alpha on the first floor.

In the low pink and purple lights, he didn’t look real. His white clothes changed color along with the lights, and all of his little trinkets only accentuated his preciousness. Nothing gleamed as hard as his eyes, though.

“Go,” said Stiles in a quiet voice.

The alpha looked at him for a moment, then roared, swerved around, and ran on all fours across the bar until he crashed through the exit.

Stiles lifted his chin. He gave the people staring at him a brief glance and turned to Derek.

“I’m kinda hungry,” he said and smiled.

If they weren’t in the club in the middle of the busy city, Derek would’ve run out like that alpha just did. He would’ve headed straight for the forest and found the best game there was: juicy, young, and soft. He would’ve torn its throat with his teeth and dropped the prey at his omega’s feet. He would’ve cut the meat in tiny pieces with his claws and fed the bloody bits right into Stiles’ open mouth.

Derek swallowed.

“Let’s see what they have,” he rasped.

He took the suddenly obedient omega by the hand and sat him down on the sofa right next to himself. When Derek took the menu, Stiles waved it off.

“Order for me, alpha.” He swung one of his knees over Derek’s thigh and dangled his foot. “Cora, you’re scaring people. Come here, please, I need to know all the family drama.”

Scoffing, Cora left the railing and walked back to the sofa.

“So, here’s the thing…” she started.

Derek could hardly concentrate on anything beyond Stiles’ body that settled so nicely against him and the omega’s leg swung over his thigh. When the food arrived — steak and fries, because Derek needed to feed Stiles something bloody — the wolf took it apart and fed his omega slowly and carefully.

While Cora waved her fork around between the telling of the complicated tale, Stiles didn’t lift a finger. He must have sensed something from Derek, something primal and scorching that needed attention and wouldn’t agree to a compromise.

Interestingly, Stiles seemed to find just as much pleasure in the wolf’s actions.  

Derek didn’t forget how he complained about the alphas choosing the food for him, yet, this time he asked Derek to do exactly that. It nearly drove him feral as he realized that Stiles trusted him with the choice. He knew that the wolf would feed him well.

Whether it was a conscious decision or a play of instincts, they fit together. Two puzzle pieces locked and stuck so hard that one could not take them apart without completely destroying both.

Read full version here

[divider link]

[dontcallpanic]

WIP not-wednesday!

I was tagged by the absolutely incredible @seaweed-water and if you haven't read their latest WIP you need to go and do that now! It's dark and sinister and just has everything for all of your murder husband needs. Holy shit it's good!

I mean, I can't follow that example at all and I've been struggling over this for weeks but here's what I have so far although this bit also needs some credit because while this is from a dream I had (yeah I know...) I am certain the dream was inspired by mwsog.cymru's instagram (they go Hard on the weird welsh folk stuff) and @dear-massacre 's Bruised like Violets which continues to haunt me months later in the best kind of way. https://archiveofourown.org/works/46402561/chapters/116830630

It's only loosely related to this snippet but I love bruised like violets with all my heart and I think everyone should read it - and well, credit where credit is due.

So thanks everyone and here you go!

______________________________________________

Stiles is lost. Again. This time, however, he doesn't have the safety of his Jeep around him. This time, he is alone, deep in the forest. Ghostly mist curls lazily through the trees, clinging to the leaves strewn across the floor, weaving between bent and twisted trunks. Above him, the moon hangs round and full in the freezing sky and all around the tall spires of the pines press close, scattering the moonlight across the ground. His breath coils like smoke in the frigid air, the only sign of life in an otherwise deserted forest. Nothing moves. There's nothing for miles that makes a single sound – not even his feet on the frost bitten ground. It's like the whole forest is holding its breath. Between the filtered moonlight, the night is black as pitch and all he can see, creeping in the corner of his eye, are two red rings of light. They appear out of nothing, stalking him through the trees, drifting from shadow to shadow. Taking their time. Stiles picks up the pace, sneakers still eerily silent on the frosted leaves - but he tries not to walk too fast, now. He doesn't want to look too much like prey to whatever it is thats hunting in the dark. He presses forward, stumbling his way around the roots and trunks and the eyes match his progress, step for step. It only occurs to him then to wonder, when did the red eyed monster start hunting him? Wasn't it supposed to be the other way around? Reluctantly he slows his pace again, hands curling into fists by his side, muscles tensing as he steels himself. Whatever it is, he'll meet it head on. He spins around but trips on the uneven ground. His arms spiral out for balance but the distraction costs him greatly and between one moment and the next, the eyes have gone. And strangely the absence actually hurts, a deep ache lodged deep in his chest. His heart begins to hammer even harder against his ribs. An all too familiar sensation of late.

The wind picks up from nowhere, rustling the stubborn leaves, the first sound he's heard in this isolated place. The frozen air sweeps across his brow, kisses his cheeks and pulls the blood to the surface. Pink stains blooming across his skin. Something cracks behind him. He spins again, eyes wild as he scans the trees for the red-eyed monster but it's nowhere to be seen. Instead, looming over him, towering towards the moon, is the burnt out, rotting husk of a house. Stiles stares up at the frame, monsters in the dark temporarily forgotten as he gapes up at the windowless frames that blankly gaze out towards the forest like sockets in a skull. The whole place reeks of bitter ashes and death, the acrid scent of smoke clinging to the mist where it curls around his ankles. Stark patterns of frost have curled around the blackened frame, the door hangs crooked on its hinges, jagged splinters snarling like teeth in the maw of some long forgotten god.

Dread trickles down his spine and coils in his gut. The remains look so violent for something so still. An entire family burned to death. Only the innocent left to face the consequences and he knows there's no justice here. Only grief. He shudders despite not feeling the cold, standing where the trees and moss give way to ash and charred remains. The line between life and death is stark, as if something in the forest recognises just what was ripped away here, leaving nothing but a festering wound. All around him, nature waits, biding its time as if that is all it needs to heal. Then, between one moment and the next, Stiles knows he is not alone any more. There is something in the darkness with him. Something lurking in the trees Behind him. His whole body seizes, freezing fingertips crawl up his back and he turns slowly, ever so slowly, staring hard into the corner of his eye. He expects to see red, slipping between the trees. That would almost be a comfort. Instead, he sees antlers and the long, wicked lines of a bleach-white skull. Stiles flinches back, his hands reaching out, the sound dying in his throat as the skull turns to look directly at him, empty, eternal sockets, piercing and full of intent. A breath of wind shudders through the branches around him, the whole forest rippling with the echoes of an ancient, rotting power, drawn irresistibly in towards them. He can't move. He can't fucking move.

The creature seems to glide forward, moonlight disappearing into the endless darkness of its cloaked body. It makes no sound as it closes in, the ground beneath it remaining untouched. Something fractures inside him and Stiles stumbles backwards, staggering out of the treeline. His feet disturb the ash, small eddies billowing around his feet and still the creature follows.

Ice cold fingers grab his jaw and he is forced to stop. His head is held immobile by strong bone-sharp fingertips but there's nothing there - nothing that he can see. When he raises one shaking hand to his jaw, he only finds his own stubbled skin. Yet the fingers remain, forcing his eyes to meet the gaping sockets of the skull as it drifts closer and closer until it is close enough to kiss.

Ash curls up around them, puffs of air catching at where his fingertips now hang uselessly by his side. Faintly he's aware that there is something caught in the wind – a sound, something reminiscent of words. The skull twists, tilting to the side, it's grinning teeth glinting sharply in the moonlight. It commands his focus, forces him to listen. It sounds almost like a voice, a woman's whisper, caught and carried, barely there, lost to the air. It sounds almost like a wish. Almost like a curse.

Come home, my darling.

Stiles jerks awake as if someone has blasted an air horn in his ear. He pistons upright, almost overbalancing the chair and grips hold of the desk to stabilise himself just in time. Holy shit. It was a dream! It was a mother fucking dream.

He swears loudly into the silence scrubbing a shaking hand through his hair. Fuck. His subconscious must be on one if that was what it was coming up with. Stag skulls and full moons and the burnt out Hale house. The red eyes almost seem secondary when faced with all that shit. He places a hand on his chest, oddly reassured by the hammering of his own heart after the stillness of the woods. Jesus Christ. He feels like he has been asking this a lot recently but seriously - what the fuck? What the absolute fuck?

______________________________________________

Gentle no pressure tags to: @gege-wondering-around @patolemus @hellameyers and anyone else who wants to share!

[honestlydarkprincess]

😱😱😱😱😱

~💙

😱 stiles didn't know they were dating

There was a genuinely lost and confused look in the boy’s eyes that gave Peter the sneaking suspicion that there was some sort of miscommunication or misunderstanding going on here. However protective anger roared in his chest and prevented him from feeling bad for Stiles, at least for now. With one last look, he stormed out of the house, following Cora into the woods to chase after Derek.

Stiles stared helplessly as the pack filtered out of the house, each of them glaring at Stiles.

Finally it was just Scott left and he hovered by the door for a second before turning around and looking at Stiles. “I don’t want to believe you did that on purpose, man. For all you can be a dick sometimes, I know you would never intentionally hurt someone like this, especially not Derek. So, why did you bring someone else here, to our den, when you’re dating Derek?” Scott asked, eyes flashing.

For a brief moment before he processed exactly what Scott had said, Stiles was proud of Scott for being so protective over the alpha. The two of them had had such a rocky start but were now slowly becoming good friends. Scott had even given up his alpha potential for now to be Derek’s beta, that said something.

Then Stiles registered exactly what his best friend had just said.

“What, what?!” Stiles squeaked. “What the fuck are you talking about? I’m not dating Derek?”

make me write, round two!

[exhuastedpigeon]

WIP tag game!

Rules: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

A * means I've worked on the WIP in the last couple of weeks

My WIPs Buddie:

I'll Show You Magic*

NHL AU*

PR Disaster *

High School Never Ends

Beer league

I'll tell you my sins*

The Patron Saint of Evan Buckley

The Repression Symphony*

Baseball AU

Ghost hunters AU

hot blood in my pulsing veins

show me devotion

Buddie 3-some

You never touched me, but I felt you everywhere

Timeloop x2

scratch on the moon, like a familiar smile*

make this house a home

Same age

Easy As Lovers Go

Steddie:

Class of '86*

Tattoo fic

What kind of magic spell to use?

I think I love you in all possible lives

Sterek:

Pinch me like a crab*

Hunter!Stiles

Townie - the summer romance that might not end

I'm not going to tag 25 people because that feels like a lot, but I will (no pressure) tag - @thewolvesof1998 @malewifediaz @spotsandsocks @spagheddiediaz @eddiebabygirldiaz @monsterrae1 @loserdiaz @watchyourbuck @underwater-ninja-13 @jamespearce9-1-1 @ladydorian05 @actualalligator @jesuisici33 @jeeyuns @cal-daisies-and-briars @callmenewbie @devirnis @rainbow-nerdss @thekristen999 @inell @rosieposiepuddingnpie @911-on-abc @butchdiaz and anyone else who wants to share!

[lazinesswrites]

WIP Wednesday

I had my last exam of the semester over a week ago, and next semester doesn't start for another two weeks, so I've had (and will have) plenty of time to write! And I have wanted to! Unfortunately I've had no inspiration whatsoever.

That is, until Sunday evening, while I was watching a game in the Men's Handball World Cup with my family and I thought about a Teen Wolf fic idea I've had for a while but haven't started writing yet (entirely unrelated to the Handball) and then after the game I decided to write just a couple notes for it. Before i knew it, I had two and half pages of notes, not exactly in the direction I'd meant, and it was very much past my bed time. But, hey, inspiration!

So that's what I've been working on the last couple days - at this rate, it might be done by the end of the week. No promises, but... it's on the way. Here's the first paragraph in its current iteration:

To be perfectly, one-hundred percent, entirely honest, Stiles isn��t sure how he got himself onto this mission. This team. He’s got the qualifications, for sure, but—well, he’s got the experience, anyway, but none of his superiors actually know that. After all, this is a special team, specializing in supernatural stuff, and Stiles hasn’t told anyone about the supernatural shitstorm that was his last few years in Beacon Hills; hasn’t even let anyone so much as suspect he knows anything about anything. And, honestly (wow, he’s really being super honest with himself today, huh, his therapist would be proud of him) after the whole thing with talking himself onto the team trying to catch Derek and getting caught in the crossfire – literally – and then making off with the prime suspect, Stiles had thought he’d essentially cut all ties to the FBI forever, but here he is, on mission, again, with a team he does not actually in any way have the training to be a part of. Officially, anyway. Even if he was the best in virtually all the classes he has taken.

Oh god now I need to think of a title for this thing. Dammit.

I've also been working a little bit on the continuation of Down of the Heavens (Shadowhunters, Malec, wing-fic), but that's not moving nearly as fast, and is mostly me editing the parts I've already written. Which is also important, of course, but not nearly as satisfying as seeing that word count go up.