#TW: Season 3B

[christinesficrecs]

do you have any recs for fics post 3B or post season 4? Thank you!! Love your blog 💜💞

I'm so glad you asked! 🩷 This is my "omg, this was so good" list. 😊

Written in the Scars by dr_girlfriend | 15.3K | Explicit

Stiles stared into eyes that were just a little lighter than even the day before, looking almost beta-gold in the harsh lighting. His nose was just a little less uptilted, the moles on his face not quite where they used to be. The scar on the bottom of his chin from when he fell off the swings in third grade was just gone. He seemed a little bit taller, his shoulders a little bit wider.

With trembling fingers Stiles folded his left ear forward, craning his neck. A wheezing breath escaped him, his legs suddenly feeling weak with relief.

The mark of the Oni was still there, the one that meant self.

Stiles was still himself. For now.

The Walls Are Breathing In by secondstar | 41.8K | Explicit

Nothing could go wrong. It was just supposed to be a safe trip to the Nemeton. But this is Beacon Hills and things are rarely that simple. Welcome to the life of Stiles Stilinski.

Or, that time that Stiles accidentally became a sorcerer against his will.

Someone Else’s Dream by theroguesgambit | 36.6K

Post-3B. Derek has gone missing, and Stiles’ dreams might be the only way to save him.

out of the nightmare, into your arms by  tryslora | 6.4K

Stiles wakes up in the bathtub. It’s the third time sleepwalking this week, and at least this time he’s in the house. Ever since the Nogitsune, he’s had nightmares and nothing, and no one seems to be able to stop them. Until Derek.

Full On Rainstorm by BarlowGirl | 10.5K | Explicit

He catches Derek by the arm and Derek lets himself be turned, surprised when Stiles shoves a small box into his hands. “I don’t know if you still celebrate it or what but… I wanted you to know someone was thinking about you. Happy birthday.”

Then he squeezes Derek’s arm and bolts, gone before Derek can think to stop him.

He opens the box standing there, only to find one singular, misshapen, sloppily-frosted, cupcake, with a candle in the box next to it. It’s kind of squished despite the paper towel all around it to keep it from banging around in the box.

If You’re Going Through Hell (Keep Going) | 48.5K

Stiles thought everything leading up to Allison’s death was hell, but he was wrong. Spending senior year dealing with the pack’s dismissal of him while secretly training to be Deaton’s replacement was hell. Feeling guilty and hating himself for what the Nogitsune did was hell. Being in love with someone who would never love him back was hell. Well, if you’re going through hell, keep going.

Not Quite Lost (Not Quite Found) by alocalband | 25K | Explicit

A year after the nogitsune is defeated, Derek is living a quiet life in the mountains above a small town in Colorado.

Then Stiles shows up.

The One You Choose by Asterekmess (Livinginfictions) | 13.4K | Mature

Stiles hadn’t seen Scott in over a week, except for glances he caught during school hours.

Saturday Night At The Movies by aussiebee | 7.3K | Explicit

After running into Stiles at the late night movies, Derek realises just how badly Stiles is handling the post-nogitsune fallout. He knows the feeling.

Sense of Home by siny | 53K | Explicit

Home can be a place, but it can also be a person.

After the events with the Nemeton, Stiles starts suffering the consequences of their sacrifice. A journey he attempts to make on his own, but only becomes worse with every step he takes. In the process he seeks comfort in an unexpected place and it draws him toward an unexpected person.

Illuminated by ZainClaw | 5K 

“Because I’m falling in love with you and it’s scaring the hell out of me.”

Start Small, Like Oak Trees by SmallBirds | 24.2K

The months following Allison’s death have passed Stiles by in a haze of monotony. He sleepwalks through days that seem to lose their color, an unwilling passenger in a body he no longer trusts. Eventually, he thinks, he’ll just fade away. He isn’t sure anyone would notice. Then, during a spur of the moment grocery run, he stumbles upon Derek Hale attempting to console a lost child, and for the first time in recent memory the world doesn’t seem so awful. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting when he eventually convinces Derek to move into the Stilinski’s spare bedroom, but a newfound passion for weeding and topsoil certainly isn’t it.

Nitesky by  thepsychicclam | 7K

Stiles has trouble dealing with the after effects of the nogitsune, and Derek finds him sitting on his roof.

Honey, Can’t you See (The Bloodstains on my Teeth) by  Loup_Aigre, TroubleIWant | 44.9K

“Mr Stilinski.” Deaton’s usually impassive face betrays a hint of surprise today, maybe even disappointment. “You haven’t changed your mind.”

Stiles tips his chin up, smiling against his irritation. “Nope,” he confirms, so cheerily it bites. They had arranged this weeks ago, yet Deaton was apparently betting Stiles wouldn’t go through with it in the end. Fuck that. He doesn’t know what it’s like out there, not really. He can afford to hold himself aloof and uninvolved, knowing his druid power is enough to keep him safe in this little office. Stiles can’t. Scott’s pack has got to protect this whole town, and Stiles’ spark isn’t enough to protect all of them while they do it.

^^^technically not post-3B but soooo good!

[bellzsad]

i’ll never forgive teen wolf for getting rid of so many characters and plot lines after season 3b all because of allison

[so-long-soldier-writes]

Time to Go

isaac lahey x reader

summary: isaac's not quite sure what to do with himself after your death

tags: angst, hurt/ some comfort, implied character death, aftermath of war, work contains no violence, anxiety, awkward conversations, small mention of sex, unrequited love, heartbreak, title from a taylor swift song

word count: 762 | drabble #1

a/n: allison erasure; reader is in her place

The memory plays over and over in his head. The soft mutterings of those around him don’t block out any of the ruminating thoughts. His mind is cluttered and heart is heavy. A thousand people surround him, and they have no idea of the pain he carries. 

A soft appearance competed with a fiery personality, but you made it work. You were gentle and loving, but you could protect yourself and your friends like hell. In his eyes, you are just nearly perfect. 

Were. 

You were just nearly perfect. Because three days ago, a brutal fight took you from him. 

It took you from this world, and from your friends. A seventy year old ghost story ruined his life and ended yours, and now he’s trying to pick up the pieces to move on. He can’t. 

Yesterday was your funeral. They kept it low-key and between friends and what little family you had left. You were buried beside your mother and aunt in a small cemetery on a private piece of land. It’s all the same soil, though. The same earth. The same ground in which his own family is buried: his mother, his brother, his father. 

He hopes you can find peace, wherever you are. That you’re not hurting, nor mourning for your life like your friends will mourn your death. You deserve peace. 

⋯

After too long of a silence, Isaac grows restless. Any minute now, they’ll be called to board their flight, but between the waiting game and the chatter of those around them, his anxiety builds. Throat dry, he prepares to address the man beside him. His knee bounces quickly and he glances up twice before clearing his throat. 

“I, uh, I slept with her,” he blurts out, “with Y/N.” 

Chris tenses, but doesn’t reply. He narrows his eyes at the boy, previously nervous but now racked with worry. 

“I just thought you should know.”

In any other circumstances, he’d be whopping him on the ass right now. One for doing it; a second for catching him off guard with it; then a third, for his daughter, whom he’d never hit. But these are not normal circumstances. This is a boy, scared, and hurt, and in obvious pain. Chris sympathizes with him; his heart aches for him. “I know.”

Isaac looks up again, seemingly surprised. He doesn’t address that, though, and is quiet for a minute more. When he’s ready to talk again, his voice is shaky with threatening tears. “I loved her.”

Now it’s Chris’ turn to be surprised. He opens his mouth to respond, but comes up with nothing. Instead, he places a hand on the knee of the boy, trying to both settle and comfort him. It works a little. Isaac nods, lip trembling. 

You loved your father. You used one of your last breaths to say it, to beg your friends to make him sure he knew it. Isaac doesn’t mention to the man that you didn’t love him back. He doesn’t know if he could even admit it to himself. 

“I smell a strong emotion here.”

“Fear?”

“Anger.”

“Sounds like Lydia.”

…

“Did you wish it was someone else?”

“No. No, of course not.”

The girl hid slightly behind the hair blocking her face. Isaac couldn’t place the emotion he smelled from her. He couldn’t read her face. 

“Flight 130A to Paris, France. Boarding now.”

The flight attendant’s voice snaps him out of the memory. Chris turns to him, a sorrowful look on his face. “You sure you want to do this?”

Isaac hesitates. No, he doesn’t want to leave Beacon Hills behind. He doesn’t want to leave his pack, nor his friends, nor the family that took him in when he was desperate. He finally started to feel like he had a family, a real family. Isaac would give anything to stay. 

Yet, at the same time, he can’t stay. The memories are too painful and too vivid. They sting like daggers in his chest, like poison running down his throat. He’s lost so many people in that town; he’s due for a fresh start. 

And, even though he loves Scott and would protect him with his life… he hasn’t been able to look at him straight since hearing your confession that night. Knowing you never loved him. You were in love with your ex, his alpha. And while none of that was Scott’s fault, it hurts him too much to stay. 

So, he leaves. 

“Yeah,” he finally replies, looking out to the plane from the window, “it’s time to go."

[illuminatedlahey]

In my Teen Wolf sad era again ✌🏾

[dunbalpha]

no one knowing a thing ab tw..... a blessing (you haven't suffered thru it) and a curse (you haven't gotten to experience it)

[lightcreators]

Darkness  couldn't  hurt  him,  it  was  quite  the  dreadful  aura  that  could  coming  from  someone  associated  to  Hades.  Nevertheless,  in  middle  of  current  shadows  of  the  night,  that  dreadful  feeling  wasn't  coming  especially  from  him,  wasn't  something  his  body  echoed  in  the  room  ---  no,  it  was  mostly  something  who  was  reflected  by  the  desire  of  the  entity  to  put  alive  that  emotion,  in  which,  in  consequence,  the  invisible  vibration  could  be  sensed.  Amusingly,  awareness  of  the  presence  of  the  Dread,  somewhere  soothing  for  him,  acted  like  an  reminder  he  would  have  to  remain  calm,  and  not  weakening  himself  in  front  of  what  going  on.  It  was  just  darkness.  It  was  just  the  night.  It  was  just  the  obscurity.  Eyes  decided  to  focusing  on  Stiles,  as  once  more,  beyond  the  slight  element  of  the  Underworld,  that  remaining  question  remained  ---  did  he  had  something  to  do  with  Dread  beyond  Hypnos  and  Hades  ?  Did  he  was  somewhere  attached  to  his  invisible  supporter  ?  Did  they  were  some  connections  between  the  sensation  inside  the  atmosphere  about  this  dreadful  feeling  ?  Closing  his  eyes  for  a  few  seconds,  he  reached  firstly  to  controlling  his  own  reactions.  What  could  be  experienced  as  oppressive  for  the  other  boy  …  was  barely  nice.  There  was  another  dreadful  emotion  regardless,  but  minus  the  one  of  the  entity,  current  dread  embraced  them  seemed  delicate,  another  taste  --  and  he  decided  this  could  be  used  against  the  yokai  temporary.  Opening  his  eyes  once  more,  his  hands  attempted  to  be  comforting  though  affections  towards  Stiles.  If  his  mind  could  overcome  the  panic,  circumstances  would  move  on  in  an  good  direction  …

❝  Technically,  it's  complicated.  ❞  He  confessed  slowly.  ❝  However,  we  can  transform  the  atmosphere  into  something  else.  ❞  The  shadows  were  never  meant  to  be  enemies  of  his.  If  they  wanted  so  much  to  even  think  about  hurt  him  or  becoming  offensive  as  oppressive,  he  would  control  them  instead  to  be  good  darkness  handling  themselves  just  fine.  He  heard  that  noise  too,  but  didn't  let  himself  be  distracted.  ❝  If  it  was  someone's  spirit,  I  could  order  it  without  any  problem.  If  it  was  a  common  spirit  without  anything  special  behind  it,  it  would  have  already  understood  things.  Now  I  have  to  make  this  yokai  understand  that  I  know  land  of  darkness  too,  and  that  it  must  know  what  to  expect  if  he  lingers  too  long.  ❞  He  attempted  to  reassuring  slowly,  as  his  focus  remained  to  stand  inside  his  wish.  Hades.  Hypnos.  Thanatos.  Phobos.  Deimos.  How  many  chthonic  deities  was  attached  to  that  boy  ?  Later,  they  would  have  to  have  that  unwanted  conversation  concerning  how  it  was  dramatically  a  good  guy  he  was  around  him,  as  Hades  son,  for  pull  sense  over  how  why  all  these  chthonic  deities  were  around  him.  He  had  a  big  crush  over  someone  who  screamed  Death,  and  was  literally  another  one  of  mythological  creatures.  ❝  Really,  sometimes  I'll  believe  you  were  given  the  identity  of  a  half  blood  without  the  powers,  if  that  will  ease  your  mind  for  a  moment.  Deimos  is  a  bit  of  a  jester  in  his  neutrality,  if  you  understand  that  this  feeling  is  there,  you  can  breathe  all  that  terror  into  you  and  inhale  deeply  to  remember  that  he  won't  hurt  you,  and  when  you  exhale,  his  feeling  passes,  it  becomes  rather  protective.  ❞  He encouraged.

By  the  way  his  expression  changed  when  he  asked  that  previous  question,  he  touched  a  good  point  straight  to  the  heart.  Well,  it  would  have  been  hard  not  to  notice  it  …  Only,  he  seemed  alone  realize  in  which  degree  such  connection  merited  an  couple  of  explanations  !  Beginning  of  his  explanation,  in  which  the  whole  context  wasn't  explained  to  him,  though,  was  making  sense  to  him.  ❝  An  ritual  including  to  belonging  temporary  to  the  Underworld  for  acting  within  it  for  stop  the  other  ritual,  right  ?  ❞  He  asked  slowly.  ❝  Ah,  fight.  ❞  He  answered  immediatly  before  cannot  help  to  feeling  amused  by  that  last  consideration.  ❝  Demonic  ?  ❞  He  mocked.  ❝  Demonic,  what  you  have  ?  ❞  He  bounced  back,  always  mockingly.  ❝  An  powerful  nasty  yokai  had  saw  you,  and  decided  you'll  be  fun  to  play  with.  I  don't  know  why  though.  I  don't  know  why  could  attract  a  yokai  to  be  interested  by  an  human  soul.  Though,  that  yokai  give  me  some  clues.  Stiles,  you're  afraid  of  the  dread,  right  ?  That's  why  you  haven't  been  able  to  calm  down  recently.  You  feel  that  something  is  going  to  happen,  you  feel  this  ambient  terror,  and  it  scares  you,  is  that  it  ?  ❞

                   ˜”*°•.      Insane.  No,  insane  was  not  even  close  to  describing  the  insanity  of  the  situation.   Anxiety  was  growing  more  and  more  overwhelming  second  after  second,  yet  he  knew  he  couldn’t  allow  himself  to  lose  control.  Whatever  this  thing  inside  of  him  was,  it  would  be  removed.   They’d  defeated  monsters  upon  monsters,  after  all ;  they  could  defeat  this  one  too.  Still,  he  couldn’t  understand  why.  Why  him ?  Sure,  he  was  glad  it  hadn’t  been  Scott  or  Allison,  yet  why  him ?  This  thing  had  taken  every  single  part  of  his  past  and  turned  it  into  his  enemy.  It’d  unburied  the  darkest  moments  of  his  life  and  revived  them.  The  disease,  the  reason  his  mother  would  yell  at  him,  blame  him,  forget  him  and  eventually  take  her  away  from  him,  mimicked  by  this  thing.  He’d  been  thinking  he  was  losing  his  mind ,  that  he  was  going  to  die  like  she  had …  and  yet,  it’d  been  all  just  a  game .

❝ Can’t  you  get  it  out  now  ? ❞  Echoed  the  question  a  bit  too  impatiently .  If  there  was  a  way  to  stop  it  before  it  fully  possessed  him,  then  this  was  good  news,   right ?  The  sound  of  glass  breaking  ceased  his  train  of  thought.  Eyes  looking  towards  the  source  of  the  sound,  yet  he  was  afraid.  Afraid  that  if  he  went  there,  he’d  see  nothing.  Afraid  that  if  he  DARED  to  take  a  look,  he’d  be  lost  in  another  hallucination .    ❝ Did  you  hear  this ? ❞  Uncertainty  dressed  his  tone  -  the  fear  of  a  potential  negation  growing  wild .  It  didn’t  matter.  It  didn’t  matter  if  it  was  real or  not . 

At  his  next  words,  he  looked  almost  as  if  he’d  been  caught  stealing  cookies  from  the  jar.  He  knew  exactly  HOW  had  this  Underworld  come  in  contact  with  him.  And  he  knew  that  the  rest  of  the  people  involved  weren’t  exactly  in the  best  condition  either.  ❝ Me,  Scott  and  Allison  might’ve  participated   in  a  ritual.  Well,  it  was  mostly  to  stop  another  ritual  but...  you  get  what  I  am  saying. ❞  It’d  make  sense  if  this  was  how  this  entity  had  infected  him.   ❝ What  should  we  do?  Because  I  am  really  not  a  fan  of  having  demonic  entities  in  my  body. ❞ 

[chaos-chloe]

I have a request for the Clooless guys

Could it be the Clooless guys meeting the reader in person for the first time at a like at a mall or a fair. The twist is the reader has never shown their face so they don’t know what they look like. So the reader decides to have fun with them. Following them around and sending the guys photos of them in a group chat. This is flustering them because clearly the reader can see them but they can’t find them. Eventually they walk up to the group pretending to be a fan wanting a photo, they get it, then send it to the group chat ending their little game. The reader apologizes offers to pay for a meal and some drinks as an apology and they all have a fun night.

I hope your having a good day or night

Fairly Clueless - Clooless/Pezzy x reader

Summary: Faceless reader/youtuber plays mind games with the guys

TW: cursing, lmk if I missed anything <3

As I was leisurely walking up to the ticket stand, I grabbed my season pass out of my small black purse that was slung over my left shoulder. The girl saw my pass and let me walk through without a word, which made me quite paranoid. I kept my head on a swivel making sure no one is recording or recognizing me. My hair was flowing down my shoulders, ending at the bottom of my back. 

I kept walking around the vendor section looking for a certain small trinket, to add to my collection of weird little things. My eyes spotted a copper witch broom besom on a skull, as I was about to grab it another hand snagged it up. My eyes trailed their arm up to their face, my eyes widened and I backed up slowly, it was Droids as in ElasticDroid. My eyes wandered around the open area and saw the guys trying to meet up with Droid. 

I played it cool and kept looking around at the vendors table, I was listening into the guys conversation. 

“Droid, we finally found you. Why do you keep moving while we are trying to meet up with you man?” Puffer asked, annoyed .

“Dude, I’m sorry but look what I found! Isn’t it cool, like um uh ____ would have?” Droid questioned excitedly.

“It’s slightly creepy, not gonna lie. But it does seem like ____ would have that on her shelf.” Grizzy responded wearily, he kept his eyes on it.

“Droid, are you buying that for her?” Pezzy asked.

“Duh, of course I am. Why else would I have it in my hand?” Droid snarked back at Pezzy, the guys laughed together. 

I sneakily walked away from the group, I had a master plan forming in my head. I took out my phone to make it look like I was trying to take a picture of the surrounding venue, but really I was taking a picture of the guys.  They were laughing at Droid, as he took out his wallet to pay for my “surprise” new trinket. I opened Discord to send a text. 

*PICTURE*

{You guys look like you are having at that vendor's table ;)}

Before I sent that non-cryptic message, I started walking away, so they wouldn’t see me being suspicious. 

Droid

{Uh what?} 

Pezzy 

{when did you decide to move to Texas, WHAT?!}

Puffer

{Definitely not creepy at all ____}

Grizzy

{Nah this is why I stay home, ____)

{whattttt noooo, definitely not creepy Puffer. <3)

{I always lived in Texas Pezzy}

{love you droid *mwah*}

{Grizzy shush, you love meee}

Droid 

{_____ where are you?}

Grizzy

{yeah, let’s meet up}

Puffer

{Nah, we hate woman lol}

Pezzy

{true fuck woman LMAO}

{I’m really feeling the love guys}

{maybe we will meet up after I do some browsing, and looking at the animals *mwah*}

I put my phone away in my purse and pulled some cash out and stuffed the bills in my pocket. I walked to wing 3B, where they kept the animals. I found a table where you can buy a bucket of food for the fur babies, after my transaction I marched my way through people with a purpose to feed the babies. I reached my first destination of a pen with a momma goat feeding her kids, I tiptoed over to her, grabbed a handful of feed and stretched my arm over the chicken wire fence to have my hand right there in front of her face. Momma goat finally relaxed when she realized I wasn’t here to harm, but to help her take care of her and the babies, she ate right out of my left hand. 

After the goat finished eating I moved onto the other animals, while walking around I spotted the guys again and snapped a quick picture once I got my phone out of my purse. 

*PICTURE*

{Hmmm, you guys must be Clooless} 

{hehhe}

Puffer

{Hahah I see what you did there}

Grizzy

{Reallll funnny}

Pezzy

{*face palm*}

Droid

{ahaha what?} 

{cmon on droid keep up with me}

I put my phone up in one of my pockets in my bottoms. Walking away from the scene to the next animals, llamas. As I was feeding one of the dark caramel colored llamas, I heard a set of footsteps walk up to me. I spun on my heel being face to face with Pezzy, I saw Puffer slowly walking to Pezzy. 

“Yes? How can I help you?” I asked politely, trying not to be suspicious.

“I just wanted to say that my friends but mostly me, think you are really beautiful. Is there any way I can get your number?” Pezzy answered my question with another question. I shifted on the soles of my feet, thinking about it. *they don’t have my number, so might as well give it to them and fuck around with Pezzy later*

“Um yeah sure, do you want to write it down or type it into your phone?” I agreed 

“Oh yeah, my bad.” Pezzy fumbled to get his phone out of his left pocket. He opened his message app and I quickly typed my number in with a contact name of ____.

“Text me later okay?” I suggested with a smile and wave goodbye

“Will do, _____.” Pezzy smiled and walked off 

I was giggling with a small jiggle in my body as I walked to different sections. My brain is reeking with excitement and ideas of how to fully fuck with them and reveal myself to them at the same time. After feeding and visiting all the animals and seeing all the children light up with smiles, I took myself outside to go explore the fair games set up. 

When I arrived at the games, the boys minus Pezzy were standing around with a drink in their hands laughing and picking on each other. I walked shyly up to them acting like I was a fan wanting a picture or a hug.

“I’m so sorry to disturb y’all but is there any way I can take a picture with y’all or at least a hug?” I asked with my cheeks turning a bit pink. 

“Oh my god, yes. C’mon Grizzy take the photo.” Droid said excitedly and set his bag on the ground. I handed my phone to Grizzy, then all of us got in frame, made a funny face and clicked! Photo success!

“If you want, Pezzy should be back any minute if you want one with him.” Grizzy suggested while Puffer was giving me a hawk eye like he was trying to figure me out.

“I would love to, but I have to start heading home. Thank you again, y’all stay safe.” I wish them luck and hopefully I don’t get caught just yet. 

I walked back to my car, unlocked the driver side and slid onto the seat. I took a deep breath to calm my heart rate, my heart feels like it is beating out of my chest. Once my keys were in the ignition and my phone hooked up to my bluetooth stereo, I opened the groupchat to reveal my “prank” on the guys. 

*PICTURE*

{it was nice meeting you guys <3}

Grizzy

{nah, no way you playing?!}

Puffer 

{I TOLD YOU GUYS SHE WAS SUS}

Droid 

{WHAT?! I WAS PLAYED WITH BEFORE I WAS TAKEN TO DINNER}

{I CANT BELIEVE THIS BULLLL SHIT}

Pezzy

{....____?}

{Hi guyssss, I hope you all aren't too mad?}

{I was nervous, don't fully expect me to have face cam on now lol}

{yes, pezz?}

Puffer

{Pezzy you really sought after her didnt you?}

Pezzy

{I DIDNT KNOW ON GOD PUFFER}

Droid

{Now you lost me and grizz}

{we are starting at eachother like 2 big idiots}

Puffer

{you know how pezzy surprisingly got a girls number}

Pezzy

{SHUT UP PUFFER}

Grizzy

{OMG YOU ASKED ____ AND DINT KNOW IT WAS HER!?!?}

Droid

{Pezzy just has that aura mannn}

{well i wasnt gonnnaa say anything…}

{I DIDNT want to put him on the spot like that, cmon puff}

Puffer

{what?! Someone had to dude}

{anywayyyys, I’m heading to Waffle House yall. Yall coming as well? My treat?}

[sugareey-makes-stuff]

Okay, so it looks this is my first Sterek fic of this year?!! That kind of blows my mind (but then again, there are a few WIPs that are hopefully getting posted within the next few months). This little ficlet was written for AShortWalkToDelinquency as part of the Stiles Shipping Central Ficlet Exchange using July's theme "aftermath" with the prompt: (Ship of choice) comforts Stiles in the aftermath of the Nogitsune. I figured I had a really good opportunity to try something a little different, so I threw together the hurt/comfort with some good ol' therapy and self-care. We get glimpses of Derek taking care of Stiles...and honestly, they really deserve all the nice things (like each other). Fulfills the "deep conversation" alternative square for my @sweetspicybingo Hurt/Comfort Bingo card, the "helping the other recover" square for my @hurtcomfort-bingo card and the "lost" square for @twbingo's Situations card 016. Lastly, @tw-anchor-down's 2024 Full Moon Round prompt "hide" was also used for inspo. Happy reading, and enjoy!

Title: With You, I Can Feel Again (<- read on AO3) Ship: Sterek (Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski) Rating: Teen WC: 2k Tags: Post-Nogitsune Arc, Post-Season 3B, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Grief/Mourning, Therapy, Coping, Cooking, Derek Hale Takes Care of Stiles Stilinski, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Talking, Pop Culture, Scent Marking, Pack Cuddles, Anchors, Feelings Realization, Gaming, Confessions, Stiles Stilinski Deserves Nice Things, Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor, Derek Hale-centric, POV Derek Hale

Summary: The fact that Stiles gets it—that they’re both on the same page—is a relief. Derek hasn’t fully thought out how to explain his latest intentions, but Stiles seems to know already. Why Derek cooks so much. Why Derek willingly loaned sacred treasures from his past.

"Thanks," Stiles murmurs. "For sharing all of that with me." For caring is left unsaid, but Derek still hears the words. * [Or: Derek figures out how to reach out to Stiles while also taking care of himself.]

[kseniaallis]

I just watched tw movie trailer, and it says a lot about my “excitement” that I just watched it. And of course I knew what’s happening because… fandom. But looking at it with my own eyes, book writing experience and participation in teen wolf fandom since I was 14, it just doesn’t make any sense.

I understand why they use Nogitsune as a main villain for the movie - it’s the most popular, loved, if you can say that, plot line of the entire show. Because if you ask fandom “what is your favourite season?” most of them will answer 3b.

What I don’t understand is how they’ll use this storyline without two major characters - Stiles and Kira. The whole reason why Nogitsune appeared in the Beacon Hills was Kira’s family history. And the reason why Nogitsune is so popular - DOB acting. Because I swear to God, if it wasn’t for him, it wouldn’t be just as enjoyable.

I won’t start on Derek’s son that suddenly appeared out of nowhere, that Derek purposefully raised in the town that gave him, his family, friends so many traumas? Make it make sense.

I won’t judge Hikari because I don’t know her plot line, but what I hate and what is heavily implied is that the part of her story is being the love interest. Why won’t you let female character just be in the story, without making them important just because they are someone’s love interest. It's 2023, not 2014 (but we stayed there, ig, and made it worse). And I still don’t like how her being kitsune sounds a lot like Kira’s replacement.

And I hope, hope that even if they pursue Liam and Hikari, please, please don’t let it happen with such a big age difference.

I also have no idea how having a romance with a character that appears just in the movie is a good idea. In all honesty, I don’t give a f about this character because I don’t know her and having this character have a romance with a beloved fandom character just for one movie is ridiculous. Especially, after setting up the whole Thiam heavily implied story line. Because, you see, the only reason why anyone even talk about the movie is fandom. And fandom loves when things they love at least appear, give them breadcrumbs and they’ll be happy. We are not picky.

Mason being a deputy? Okay, perfect. The boy was smart as hell and could go miles away from Beacon Hills to learn science, but no-no. He could have been emissary to the pack and it would work perfectly, but still it’s a no for them.

Malia and Parish's situation is so confusing, like even Lydia and Parish made more sense (age difference is still bad here). And they just decided recycling her relationship with Scott for the sake of Allison's return?

And why does she? Her arc was complete in such a perfect way. It was sad, but it was perfect. It brought reason for the pack to keep fighting, taught them lesson that they weren’t invincible. Bringing her back makes it all go in flames. She died young, saving her friends and it was beautiful in the way, because it brought the whole new meaning to her arc. But no, let’s bring her back and make Argent’s life even more tragic and painful. Let the poor man rest.

And I hope they didn’t kill Theo’s character off screen. But maybe him not being in the movie is a good thing. They can’t fuck up his character after completing his arc perfectly in the tv-show (still surprising, tbh, but I LOVE how they made it).

I remember founding out about the movie. How exciting it felt because I just returned to the fandom, reading all these thiam fics (because fandom recommendations on Tumblr made me, and I was never more grateful to learn about Theo character from the perceptive I have now as an adult. I hated him when I was young and now he is one of my favourites). It felt exciting because it had meaning. And we had hope for it to be at least a decent thing. A continuation of the story that made sense. But now they ruined almost half of the characters and removed the other half for the sake of two hours (how long is it exactly?) movie we won’t even watch.

At this point, I just wait for fix-it fics on ao3 that’ll make more sense than the plot jd came up with his writers.

Thanks for listening to my TED Talk.

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Is Kate an official OC? What headcanons can you tell us? I’m kinda invested in her story (and her relationship with Imogen’s). By the way, what do you see as Imogen’s sexuality? I know officially she’s straight (hinted as maybe bi?), but I actually have always seen her as a panromantic demisexual.

she is an official oc yes!!

starting with the Imogen question before I start rambling headcanons – when I first read the comics (not up to date though) and watching s1/2 I headcanoned her as queer, I didn't identify her with a specific label but also my headcanon was there wasn't a more specific label that resonated with her and that she would specifically ID as queer, but after season 3 I headcanon her as a demiromantic lesbian

and as for some headcanons!!! (tw for mental illness, eating disorders, and psychiatric hospital topics below)

1 - every year, Imogen & Kate & Nick dress up as Wendy and Tinkerbell and Peter Pan for Halloween. Kate isn't there in season 3 (she's busy being roommates with Charlie in the psychiatric hospital) so Imogen and Nick were going to still do costumes together as Barbie and Ken but it felt wrong to Nick to do a group costume without Kate so he changed last minute

2 – Kate is so close with Sarah, both she and Nick are tbh but 100% mama's girl through and through

3 – Kate's mental health issues started when her dad left but have been spiralling ever since. She has BPD and tends to swing between anorexia and bulimia (doesn't eat unless she's forced to, throws up when she does), has been in and out of the same psychiatric hospital that Charlie ends up in

3a – every time that Kate is in the hospital, she and Nick lie to everyone and tell them that she's visiting their dad in Paris, if anyone asks why Nick isn't going too, he says it's because of rugby

3b – she and Charlie end up in the hospital at the same time in season 3 and become roommates. They have the same case worker but different therapists, Nick is really going through hell at that point

4 – she doesn't like to eat but she does love to bake. Every Sunday, she and Nick spend the afternoon baking together and then have tea with their mom. Nick and Sarah eat some of the baked goods, Kate doesn't unless Nick really begs her to try something

5 – growing up, Nick and David shared a room and Kate had her own but after the first time she was hospitalized, she and Nick start sharing a room and David got Kate's old room

6 – she loves her camera. Most people think that she just loves photography (which is also true) but a big part of it for her is that if she's taking photos, she doesn't have to be in them

7 – she plays guitar. It's mostly just a personal hobby but she ends up getting roped into performing with Sahar's band on occasion

8 – she has glasses but doesn't wear them all the time (she doesn't wear contacts either, she just goes around mostly blind because she's self conscious about how she looks in glasses)

9 – she's fluent in French and would love to live in Paris one day

10 – she and Nick have had to do some therapy together for their codependency issues, a big focus during canon with that is dealing with their fears of university and if they end up in different places/don't live together anymore

11 – the twins have a lot of traditions & rituals & ways that Nick helps Kate cope but the most-used one is that whenever Kate is struggling a lot with body image & control issues, Nick is in charge of putting out clothes for her because otherwise she starts spiralling

12 – she is such a taylor swift girly, and her favourite album is folklore, also her favourite colour is pink, her favourite flavour (candy, drinks, medicine, etc) is strawberry followed by cherry, and her primary safe foods are blueberry-banana & strawberry-mango-pineapple smoothies

12b – she also loves heart patterns & tarot cards & vinyl records, her favourite movie is either The Princess Bride or The Wizard of Oz, and her favourite book is Perks Of Being A Wallflower

13 – she does swimming & tennis at school (and maybe gymnastics tbd), also loves figure skating and has a secret love of rock climbing

[ambear9]

Teen Wolf would have been a much better show – and more successful, too – if Dylan O'Brien had been the lead and Stiles Stilinski the main character instead of Tyler Posey and Scott McCall.

Season 3B – the Stiles and Void Stiles centric season with Dylan O'Brien at its front and center – being the highest rated and most critically acclaimed Teen Wolf season ever proves it.

I'm really glad Dylan rejected the role of Scott because he realised that Stiles was a much more complex and interesting character to play/portray; but I just cannot help thinking about what Teen Wolf could have been with the star & breakout star of the show as the lead of the series, and not only of Teen Wolf Season 3B. 

The same goes for the flop show that is the Teen Wolf Movie: Eli, Derek and Kira should have been the focus of the entire movie, with Scoot as a side/background character at best. 

I mean... what did Scott do besides whining, yelling "I AM THE TRUE ALPHA!" and obsessing over Allison in the TW movie??? Derek Hale defeated the Nogitsune and sacrificed his own life to save his son and Scott's whiny Jeff's self insert ass (because Derek had to die the same way his whole family did to redeem himself, according to Tyler Posey and Jeff Davis). Meanwhile, Scott was too busy being his usual stagnant, entitled self AND shoving his tongue down Allison's throat to do anything useful

[luulapants]

I'll do anything to not be productive today. Send me asks for unhinged overcomplicated and controversial analysis of objectively bad media pls.

//

Death in teen wolf

First of all, people out here patiently waiting for me to rediscover any love for Teen Wolf are practicing a sort of faithful devotion that apocalyptic cults would envy. You are stronger than any US Marine.

As for your question, this is a great example of why it's hard to engage Teen Wolf in any sort of genuine critical textual analysis without conflating production bullshit with authorial intent.

Because death has no textual meaning in Teen Wolf. Let's start with what I consider to be the "Engaged" era of S1-3b, after which creator involvement decreased and production went to shit.

Major deaths in this era: Kate, Peter, Mr. Lahey, Victoria, Matt, Erica, Harris, Ennis, Boyd, Kali, Jennifer, Allison, Aiden, the Nogitsune

Of these, 50% were "season villains" featured heavily through the season and killed at the end. Of the rest, two (Lahey and Harris) were minor antagonists. Of the remaining five deaths that we might actually care about, two (that we know of) were because actors wanted to leave the show, not because of narrative intent.

And, of course, we must acknowledge that over a third of them came back from the dead. Why? Because it made sense in the narrative? Or, as I suspect is the case, simply because the actor was popular and/or asked to come back.

Now look at the number of characters who "left the country." I like to think of this, sardonically, as a Teen Wolf euphemism for death the way that "going west" or "riding off into the sunset" is a euphemism for death. Isaac was sent off to a nice farm in France where he'll have lots of room to run around, you see?

When a character died vs. "left," we had about equal odds of them coming back, and those odds had nothing to do with whether their resurrection/return made sense in the TW universe or narrative and everything to do with whether the right handshakes happened off-screen. Theo came back from Literal Hell while Kira, who ostensibly went to live in a cave a day's drive from Beacon Hills, was never seen again. Stiles is such a fan favorite, he can literally never be properly written off, despite the fact that the actor is almost certainly never returning. I haven't watched the movie, but I know Derek dies at the end, probably because Tyler Hoechlin was a producer and doesn't want to return - but in this franchise, death is no escape, baybee!!

What's my point?

In the S4 deadpool plotline, one-episode characters were dying left and right. By S5 there was a literal pile of dead bodies, to the point that, by S6 when people were being disappeared from Beacon Hills, my first thought was, "How is there anyone left to take??" My point is that, for minor characters, there was no emotion or humanity in death, only plot. For major characters, there wasn't any plot either, only contract disputes and popularity surveys. Of course they killed Boyd instead of Isaac. Isaac was a pretty white boy and therefore a fan favorite. Daniel Sharman got to keep his job until the second he didn't want it (half a season later), at which point Isaac went to that farm in France, meanwhile Sinqua Walls got fired and Boyd died.

My point is that Teen Wolf was a poorly-produced scripted show by a network that had never done a scripted show before, which lived and died by market research and product placements and which had no internal stability. My point is that, in an environment like that, it is nearly impossible to create a story with a cohesive narrative intent or any thematic value, and the cast of the movie is proof that, even out from under the shadow of MTV, the story cannot recover. That cast list, I bet you anything, is identical to the list of TW actors who were still sending Jeff Davis Christmas cards at the time he closed the deal with Paramount. I loved Allison as a character, but she didn't come back from the dead because that was the story that needed to be told. She came back because Swamp Thing didn't get renewed.

Death doesn't mean anything in Teen Wolf.

[rocksaltandmountainash]

Waking up in Beacon Hills - pt. 29

Chapter summary: all work and no play would make kara boring. peter is there to ensure that doesn't happen. set between Teen Wolf seasons 3b and 4, and Supernatural seasons 7 and season 8.

Series masterlist: can be found here.

Word count:  3.9k

Warnings/notes: swearing, canon (TW and SPN) typical violence, smut, peter hale being incredibly attractive and nice, which definitely requires a warning. Gif sources:  Peter 1 | Peter 2

Utah:

Peter scratches his nails through your scalp, eliciting a contented sigh from you as you recline against him. You’re all kinds of relaxed, leaning back on his chest and resting your hands on his bent knees, savoring the moment as you come down from your high. He’s just given you a good-morning orgasm and if he wasn’t sitting behind you, propping your body up, you could collapse and melt into the bed. 

Almost. If not for one question that’s pin balling round your head.

“Peter?”

“Mmm.”

“You know that…. Wh- when you…ah fuck, never mind.”

He stops playing with your hair to peer down at you, “What?”

“Doesn’t matter.” 

He swiftly wraps hands around your waist and shifts you so you’re facing him, draping your thighs over his own, “Tell me.”

Suddenly keenly interested in inspecting the veins running down his forearm, he has to lay a palm on your cheek to get you to look at him. 

“Just…that thing you say -”

“We say a lot of things.” 

You smile shyly at that, couldn’t deny it if you’d wanted to, because Peter is vocal and descriptive in bed and he makes you loud. Part of you thinks he does it on purpose, like he’s hoping if you get enough noise complaints at one Motel 6, you’ll be banned from them all and he won’t have to lower himself to your standards anymore.

“You know which thing I mean.” 

Peter genuinely has to wrack his brains to figure out what you’re talking about and grins when the penny drops on the word that makes you croon beneath him, throwing your body higher toward ruination in an instant. 

“Oh - you mean ‘Daddy’?” he smirks before continuing, “I thought you liked that?”

“I do! But…it doesn’t weird you out?” averting your gaze, your eyes drill a hole in the wall behind him. Tell me you don’t think I’m a freak.

“Why would it?”

“Because you’re someone’s actual father.”

Peter draws in a weighty breath, staring at you intently. He didn’t realize you knew about that, and guesses your source at the same time you break and admit;

“Stiles?”

“Stiles.”

The sound of shared laughter pierces straight through your embarrassment.

“You know they’re dating, right?”

“Yes, thank you - I’m aware,” he says curtly. 

It bugs him; Malia with the sarcastic boy who not too long ago was flinging chaos around Beacon Hills - though he knows it’s not his prerogative, his place to be worrying about her.

“For one thing,” Peter lifts his fingers to list off reasons, “I only found out about Malia recently. I didn’t raise her, and she has never called me that.” 

It makes sense. You know that blood doesn’t necessarily mean family. As much as you came to adore Bobby, all his bumbling affections couldn’t turn back the clock and make it like you’d known him your whole life, like he’d parented you.

“Also, it’s…” his eyes drift, recalling each yes daddy, daddy please, fuck daddy, you’ve ever uttered, “Exquisite - so you better not stop.”

He grins when you relax, “And third, you started it.”

“What? No, I didn’t!” 

“You did.”

“When?” you demand.

He thinks back, pinpoints the beginning, “Colorado - when we sorted that nest.”

“Oh…whoops.” 

You don’t remember, would have sworn it was Peter who said it first, which only proves how corrupting he can be, how far gone you are. With your fears mollified, you scoot closer and push on his chest to force him down to the pillows.

“Does Stiles know about me?”

“Pretty sure you’ve met him - several times,” you tease, grabbing a condom from the box on the nightstand. 

Peter rips the foil packet open with his teeth. “Come on, you don’t gossip about me?”

“God no! Much as I love the kid, I’m not sharing details of my sex life with a seventeen-year-old.” 

Impatiently, you wait as Peter carefully rolls the condom down before positioning yourself above him.

“Fair enough…mmmm,” he sighs as you glide over his length. “What about Weiner boy?”

That would be worse than Stiles - technically Samandriel’s probably thousands of years old, but he looks eleven, so the thought makes you cringe.

“Nah, he’s mad at me.” 

“Why?”

“I have an idea. He thinks it’s dumb.”

The sensation of Peter’s hands squeezing your waist, exerting control over your motions, gets you worked up, primed for another round. How he studies your every move floods you with want, causing your cheeks to flush as you grind.

“What’s the idea?”

“Not telling.” 

“Why?”

“It might actually be dumb…shit…” 

Peter sits up, the head of his cock tapping against your entrance, 

“Can you just shut up now?” you whine.

“Depends,” he smiles into your neck, gripping the base of his cock, “You gonna keep saying it?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Finally, he tilts his hips and lets you sink down onto him.

****

Arizona:

You decide you deserve a night off. The day hasn’t been particularly taxing, just a couple of hours wandering through the mall to replenish your shower stuff and skin care.

You even got a trim, a few inches of split ends taken care of before feeding quarters into a massage chair and licking cinnamon sugar from your fingers after a warm pretzel, reluctant to venture out of the air conditioning back into the humidity.

After such a peaceful day of research and retail therapy, you simply can’t face the thought of hunting, want to chill, be normal for a change. So now you’re wolfing down a burrito while you watch A-Team reruns and text Peter. He’s arriving tomorrow, and you’ve been thinking about him all week. 

Luckily, the limited amount of sex you’d had in the past hadn’t been bad, per se, maybe just a little disappointing. Bland. Boring. Not that you’d known at the time.

Chris was your introduction to multiple orgasms and dirty words falling from your mouth and all kinds of things you’d wanted but never tried. The discoveries you’d made about yourself, the way he monopolised your mind for a bit there, had felt like more than only sex. All intertwined with wanting to be his - you liked it when he called you pretty as he came and held your hand after, loved how he snuck kisses away from the bedroom. 

But that’s all it - all Chris - can be now; a memory. Had to try to forget, the good parts and the bad. Clear out the image of his hand wrapped around a gun, pointed at Stiles. Push down the humiliating way you’d tried to fuck him after Allison, how kindly he’d denied you, barely touched you after that night. Until he left and kissed you goodbye at the airport.

Forced to choose one thing to lock away in your mind forever? 

You wouldn’t be able to decide between the miss you and you’ve got this and trust your instincts or the heat of his breath on the shell of your ear moaning your name and groaning shit baby, just there and mmm, that’s it.

Peter, on the other hand, is your first experience of fucking like it’s sport, or a competition, something to excel at. Of giving yourself over to someone and letting them use you as they please.  He calls you things you never would allow outside the walls of cheap motel rooms, things you probably shouldn’t enjoy - slut and whore. But always daddy’s slut and my perfect little whore. 

It’s disgusting, and it’s worrying and it’s perverse, except...it really isn’t. It’s fucking hot.

No stake in each other, no claims, just teasing and playing games and then going your separate ways. It’s purely physical, neither of you have feelings, you’re merely another of each other’s bad habits, like how smoking tastes so right when you’re drinking.

Regardless of what this thing with Peter is, it’s undeniably fun and you want to keep it. You’re even beginning to feel relieved you’re so completely alone, because you don’t want to defend your desires, just want to follow them down the rabbit hole. Why not have some light to look forward to when everything else is so dark? 

Wiping your hands, you laugh at his response to your text saying you’re headed for a shower.

Pics?? 🙏

You tell him to piss off and stand waiting for the water to warm up with your phone in your hand.

Go clean up, doll. Tomorrow you’ll be filthy. Sleep well x

****

Oregon:

A month later, and you’ve got a fairly stable routine going, taking tentative steps back into the real world. It’s an after effect of running away or being left behind that you become adept at rebuilding. You’ve done it before, even find some comfort in sowing the seedlings of a new life.

You work during the week, mostly straightforward cases, make time for Samandriel even though neither of you have anything resembling news, and do a reasonable job of being nice to him. 

Peter usually arrives on Fridays - grabbing you up as soon as you open the door, always ready and always with some snarky remark about your lodgings. 

“Is there any hovel you won’t stay in?”

“‘Dunno, any mirror you don’t stop in front of?

Tonight, though, you’re alone. Kicking open a flimsy bathroom door and slamming on the light switch, leaving a trail of blood across the wall and knocking the hairdryer out of its cradle. Panting hard and mumbling to yourself, you take off your jacket and cut your t-shirt up the middle so you can peel it away.

One glance at the gash that starts at your shoulder blade and runs all the way round your left side has your throat filling with acid. You slip your arms through your bra straps, unclip it and drop it at your feet before you lay out supplies across the counter and steel yourself.

“Shit.” 

Much worse than you’d thought. 

You’d only tracked two demons sneaking in and out of the abandoned mill. Nothing you couldn’t handle on your own. After climbing in through a basement entrance, there were three more waiting. During the fight that ensued, you lost your footing and landed on something sharp. In your hustle to get back up, you’d twisted without thinking, howling as your flesh tore open. 

With the stress and the fever pitch of your anger, you were able to clumsily dispatch the last demon before you staggered back to your car, which was hidden behind the tree line a mile down the road. Not your finest work. Wasn’t until you were a few blocks from your motel that you started to feel the pain.

You feel sick as you un-spool thread with trembling hands. Feel so fucking stupid as you poke into the skin under your breast, watching your progress in the mirror, so you can pretend it’s not your body that’s carved and leaking blood.

Realizing there’s no chance you’ll be able to reach around to patch up the entire wound, you let the needle hang useless and pull your phone from your jeans pocket. 

Don’t want to ask for his help but you’re out of options; the cut is still dripping and you’re chilly and tired and he’s closer than anyone else.

“Fuck.” you watch a fat red line dribble down your abdomen as your finger hovers over the contact. You hit the call button before you change your mind.

When it clicks over to voicemail, you turn and slide down the cabinet, wanting to cry at the automated voicemail greeting.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m in Oregon…can you…”

Suddenly you panic. He won’t come. Why the hell would he? You barely talk when he visits. All your questions seem to annoy him, so you just bang the weekend away - hardly what you’d call friendship, and probably not worthy of a favour.

“Can you come fuck me right now?”

The only ace up your sleeve to guarantee he’ll show up. 

“Sweet Home Inn, Highway 20, Room 7.” you speak fast, closing your eyes and pulling your jacket to wrap it around yourself.

Peter parks next to your beaten up car, smiling to himself and brimming with smugness as he retrieves his overnight bag from the passenger seat. 

It’s only Wednesday and you’ve called to beg. This is going well. 

He raps his knuckles on the door, playing out in his mind how the night will go, what new thing you might be up for trying this week. Then there’s an unmistakable scent in the air and he barges in to find you slumped against the bathroom cabinet. 

You’re out cold, topless except for your jacket thrown up over your shoulders. Could be mistaken for asleep, if not for the puddle of stained red clothes next to you, if your skin didn’t look ashen, gray under the singular lightbulb. 

He moves your jacket aside and sees what he’d smelt - long, dried rivulets down your stomach. 

Peter scoops you up and takes you to the bed, happy to hear you groan but unhappy you’re not waking. He presses a towel to your torso, because moving you caused fresh streams.

so much blood

Deaton doesn’t answer Peter’s call, and he fights the impulse to throw his phone across the room, electing instead to glower at your side, as if his angry look alone might staunch the flow.

too much blood

He calls Derek, who thankfully picks up.

“What?”

“I need you to go to Deaton’s.”

Peter can feel Derek rolling his eyes at him through the phone.

“Why? Pet-”

“Kara’s hurt. She needs a Doctor.”

****

People are arguing. 

“She should be in the hospital.”

“Keep your voice down.” 

They’re quieter now, “If she wanted to go, she would have.”

“Fine. Get her a tetanus shot, at least. And look out for signs of infection.”

“Fine,” Peter is equally snarky, “Here.”

He hands the man wearing glasses a wad of cash and bundles him out the door.

You watch it occur from one opened eye, wondering briefly who that man is and who they’re talking about before you fall back asleep.

****

Night comes and Peter wakes you, gently running his palm up and down your arm until you stir.

“Hey. You came?” you’re groggy and sore and more than a little shocked.

“You called,” he tucks your hair behind your ears, unsettlingly relieved to hear you speak, “Who did this, Kara?”

“Huh? No one…” you scramble for something that will stop the chilly steel in his voice from overflowing, because he’s here now and you don’t want him to leave, “I….slipped.”

You change the subject, wriggling your arms out from the sheets, “Who was that guy?”

“Some doc Deaton recommended. Stitched you up. Said you made a good start.”

Peering under the blankets, you look over the cleaned up wound, take in the line of sutures - much tidier than you would have achieved.

“I tried.” you admit, embarrassed by your efforts, and squirming under the soft smile he’s aiming your way.

“What do you need?”

Closing your eyes, you stretch your legs, careful not to move your body too much.

“I’m starving. Diner?”

“No, you need proper food.”

You roll your eyes at Peter’s disapproval. True, you’ve been subsisting on a steady diet of scrambled eggs, takeout, and protein shakes. Though in your defense, the drinks are loaded with vitamins, taste like chocolate milk and are the easiest way to stay full during your long drives.

He swats at your leg, “C’mon - get your ass up.”

“Eggs are healthy,” you mumble under your breath as you slowly get off the bed to wrap a bandage around yourself.

“They’re probably powdered.” Peter tells you, helping you get your bra clasped and pull a shirt on.

“Waffle House would never!” you protest, swaying as you let him do your buttons.

“There,” he takes your face in his hands and kisses you, “You’re ready.”

****

The restaurant Peter takes you to is fancy, as expected. What’s unexpected is that the hostess let you in.

Must be a slow night, or he laid out a hefty tip or - there it is. You realize Peter has disarmed her with all his handsome and charm when she grazes her hand over his back while taking his coat, and looks solely at him as she lists the specials.

“It’s like I’m not even here.” you tease after she’s gone.

“Jealous?”

“Definitely…. think she’ll take my number?”

Peter peruses the wine list as you read the menu, frowning at the prices.

“Don’t,” he warns, “Get whatever you feel like. My treat.”

“You sure? I didn’t bring my wallet.”

He pulls the menu away from your face, “It’s just dinner. I’m not giving you an organ.”

“You’d love to give me an ‘organ’”

Groaning at your terrible joke, he opens his mouth to say something obscene when the hostess returns, beaming at him.

He orders, then directs her attention to you, “What do you want, darling?”

“I’ll get the eye fillet, please.”

“Sides?” she’s a touch less friendly now.

“Green beans, and mashed potatoes, and…mushrooms.”

Peter grins at your appetite and you shrug, too hungry to care about politeness and if he’s buying, you’re eating.

“Drink?” 

Now she sounds downright snippy and you can’t look at Peter in case you laugh.

“Just whatever he’s having.”

You hand back the menu and glare at Peter, waiting till she’s out of earshot to scold him, “Why’d you say that? She’s gonna fuck with my food!”

“She wouldn’t dare.” 

Your phone vibrates against your ass and you squeak before you pull it out of your pocket and read the screen, remarking on the coincidence -

“It’s Derek.” 

“Ah.”

You raise your eyebrows that he doesn’t sound surprised.

“I called him. I was trying to get hold of Deaton. Derek went and found him.”

Peter tries not to let it get to him when you mutter shit before hitting ‘answer’.

“Hey, one sec.” you tell Derek, holding the phone against your chest while you get up from the booth.

“I’ll be quick,” you promise Peter, “Check my food for broken glass please?” 

You drop a peek on his cheek as you pass, leaving him smiling. Outside, you pace the block as you bring the phone up to your ear.

“Hi.”

Derek doesn’t bother with a hello, “Are you all right?” 

“I’m fine. How are you?” 

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. Just a cut. All sewn up.” You pretend that’s all he’s talking about.

“That’s not - why is he there?”

“He’s…we’re…”

Screwing each other senseless? Pals? 

“I called him.”

“Kara, he’s not what you think.”

“And what is it I think, Derek?” you ask, working hard to keep your voice on an even keel.

“I mean…he’s not a good guy.”

He’s probably right, you should heed his warning, but you look through the window and see Peter sip his wine without a care in the world. He’s just him, he’s here, and you’re not particularly good either. 

“I can handle Peter.” you laugh off Derek’s worries, “Okay?”

You hear him exhale… ”Okay.”

****

Peter stays an extra few days, helping you out while you recuperate. He refuses to let you do anything for yourself, bringing you coffee and food in bed, fetching your laptop when you’re fed up with reality TV, lingering outside the bathroom door while you shower. 

He’s kind and attentive and you wonder if it’s because he feels guilty. He should. You’re frustrated, borderline hostile, because Peter’s been ignoring you.

Tipsy from the drinks you had downed, drunk on how he’d taken your hand and shot the hostess a pointed stare, you pawed greedily at him in the car on the way back from dinner. 

“Peter? Can I?”

He tuts, shaking his head as he peels your hand off his thigh, “No, you’ve been bad - running off, getting hurt.”

You huffed and sulked, then your hand snaked back toward him. “Please….Daddy?”

He couldn’t refuse, with your voice needy and your fingers running across the pronounced bulge in his trousers.

“Need it that bad?”

He smirks as you nod eagerly and pretends to be annoyed, “Go ahead, doll.”

Made it back without crashing, locked the door behind you, and almost got him right where you needed him. Peter could always fuck you dumb, bury himself deep in a way that had your vision blurring and stopped your mind from spiraling. 

So, you braced for the pressure that would drive away your shame at messing up and having to resort to calling him to rescue you. 

He looked down, saw your eyes squeezed tight shut and quickly put an end to it. Making a barrier of pillows between you, he told you to quit bitching and rest.

By the end of the week, you’re climbing the walls, itching to leave. Had grown accustomed to being alone, to uninterrupted days spent with only your own thoughts, so it’s strange to share your space with someone for such a length of time. And if he won’t fuck you, what’s the point?

“It looks good,” Peter says, inspecting the cut as you lie on your side, arm thrown up over your head and clutching a sheet against your front. 

You’re healing fast, not as fast as he would, obviously, but he’s pleased with your progress.

“Good enough to get outta here?” you ask, dropping your arm.

“Wait…” Peter pulls your arm back where it was, “I’m fixing you.”

He focuses on arranging three rectangles of gauze in a line and taping them down carefully as you huff out a sigh, not sure which is worse - the ache of your injury or the one between your legs. 

“Done.” 

You tug a t-shirt over your head and start clearing up the trash, but Peter smacks your hand away.

“I got it.” he sits next to you and repacks the first aid kit, “You in a hurry to get somewhere?”

You glance toward your open notebook, “Mmm. Maybe Chicago?”

“What’s this?” he stands and picks it up, flipping through the pages, “See the Empire State Building? Faulkner Books, Jackson Square?”

“Hey! Give it back.” 

Leaping off the bed, you grab for the book, but Peter spins and continues to read, 

“Ride a horse? Kara, there are horses in Oregon.”

“Not the point, you dick.”

“Are you…” he turns to face you, “Are you scared of horses?”

“The average horse weighs 500kgs.” 

Peter laughs.

“Shut up!” you try again to get it out of his grasp, wincing as you reach up.

“Sorry, here.” Peter hands it over immediately when he sees your pain, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” annoyed you lift your shirt to show him your side, “See? No blood.”

Peter’s gaze travels along your body, taking in the littered bruises in various hues of yellow and purple, and the small cuts and scabs of pink that dot your skin.

“Darach?” he whispers, eyeing older scars that have faded to an almost translucent silver. 

Nodding and realizing he’s staring, you drop your shirt, self-conscious under his burning scrutiny. 

You’re not hideous, but you don’t think you’re beautiful either. Hated feeling frail or weak, so are proud of your hard earned muscles, years of a strict training schedule giving you strength where you wanted it. A decent rack, curvy enough to like the way you look in jeans - but that was in clothes, covered. Without layers is a different story, an ugly one.

“Don’t.” 

Peter moves your hand away from your hem, tracing his fingertips gently across your skin. His other hand reaching around the nape of your neck to bring you close,

“Scars mean you survived.”

[wilt3d-r0zes]

Fic Name (and link): A Fox is a Wolf who sends Flowers Series: Teen Wolf Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Melissa McCall, The Nogitsune Pairings: N/A Trigger Warnings: Standard Season 3b TWs Important Tags: Spark/Magic Stiles Stilinski, Slow Updates, Season Rewrite Summary:

"Do not meddle more, Mieczysław. We will wait." The world tilts, the white fading into grey to black. His bed seems to reach up and yank him downwards until suddenly he’s screaming himself awake in the early hours of the morning. Or, The Nogitsune is not what it seems, and also sassy

Official Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/wilt3d_r0zes/a-fox-is-a-wolf-who-brings-flowers/

Official Acronym: FWSF

Official Spotify Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6mqurPYscPgQacj4VpKfeH

The key he found on his keyring fits into the chemistry door. It isn’t that he didn’t expect it, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t hopeful. Hopeful that maybe it’s just a coincidence, that maybe he got paint on his fingers and they got on the key sometime at the rave, or maybe someone tried to steal it with paint or chemicals on their fingers, and only managed to grab it but not take it.

But no, the chemistry closet door responds well to the mystery key on his keyring. He stares at the now cracked-open closet door. Surely not. There’s no way, maybe someone put it on his keyring somehow, somewhere, somewhen without him realizing, to frame him for it.

Right?

(He’s losing his mind again.)

He turns back to the blackboard, to the riddle still written in chalk for their teacher to wipe away the next morning. Stares at it in hopeful, frail denial and listens to his sneakers squeak on the tiled floors.

(He thought it was over.)

Picking up the chalk reveals just how shaky his hands really are, when it almost falls and shatters on the floor upon being picked up. His fingers don’t want to hold it like he’s telling them to, but he manages to write on the board anyways.

19

53

88

(He thought he was free.)

It’s the same handwriting.

…

Transition

He’s waking up in his bed.

He’s waking up in his bed?

Why is he in his bed?

He’s not in his bed.

Well, technically he’s in his bed, but when he looks up and explores the room with his eyes it’s that same weird all-white parking garage-esk room he remembers from the sacrifice they did to find their parents. His bed isn’t the only furniture in the 'room,' however. His desk is in the same spot it would be if he were in his room, except there’s someone sitting in the chair, reading through a book he doesn’t recognize.

The first thing he notices is that their head is wrapped in old, browning bandages with dried blood and dirt soaking through some of the less wrapped areas or the crevices. It fills him with an uncanny feeling of discomfort and fear that grips his heart and shakes it. Still, he looks around again before saying, "Hi?"

His voice cracks enough for him to wince and clear his throat. Logically, he knows this is a dream-- what else could it be? So it doesn't matter if he angers this weird creation of his subconscious. Yet, he's filled with a level of fear that feels disproportionate to Some Dude sitting on the other side of a non-existent room.

"Hello?" he calls again when he gets no response, the being at his desk slowly turning the page of an old book made up from tarnished leather and browning parchment, "Where am I?"

"Where dreams are made and come to die, clear or full will it be," he(? The voice is masculine, so is the build he can make out from around the chair and under the brown bomber jacket) rasps. Man. Stiles hates riddles.

“Uh, okay, that… makes no sense. Who are you?”

“Watagushi, na ke de wa nai.” He responds, and it doesn't take a genius to realize that that wasn't English. Considering the only other language Stiles knows is Polish, and it certainly isn't that either, he decides it's something made up by his brain-- or, maybe it was a language Stiles knows and was just muddled by the bandages, surely those go all around his face?

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that, man," the human responds, sitting up full in his bed from where he'd barely propped himself on one arm.

“Kore wa wa re ran ogu tu na no cha.”

"Still not a language I know."

The man(?) turns another page in the book, and this time it creates a horrible, gut-wrenching ripping sound, that screams into Stiles's ears and drowns out the rest of the world regardless of the lacking sounds of life. When the page is carefully released, Stiles is left with ringing ears, “Not ‘Who are you?’, Mieczysław, ‘Who are we?’”

"What the hell was that?" he squawks, fumbling to get out of the bed. He can't move his legs, though, in what he assumes is dream logic. Somewhere in his brain he thinks it's because he's tangled in the blanket.

"We were getting too close." Mummy Man responds, voice growing no less raspy despite how much he's talking. Stiles almost wishes this is the kinda lucid dream he can control, just so he could summon a glass of water.

"Who's we?"

“We are us. I am we, you are we,” he sounds like he’s thinking, tilting his head to the side and looking up from the book, “We are meddling, we need to stop.”

Stiles stares. What? That makes no sense. Actually, that makes less than no sense, even his not-english-polish gibberish had made more sense than that. Yet, he's filled with fear at the statement. He thinks back to what he was doing just before this dream, the chalkboard, the chemistry closet--

This must be what's causing that. The part of his subconsious or brain or whatever that's doing that, killing people. Even if indirectly. He saying that he is Stiles, and that Stiles is meddling in his plans of murder.

"No!" Stiles yells, struck with a startling amount of indignant anger, "I'm not just gonna sit- sit idly by while you kill people!"

The Mummy Man turns slowly, an unnatural creak, not unlike the sound of a rusty door hinge, following the movement. He reveals his 'face', something obscured by bandages save for what can only pass as being described as a mouth. It's a gaping hole in the bandages, with teeth and tongue and black goop. Blood and black stain the bandages surrounding it, like he'd eaten something alive and not tried to clean himself up after. He doesn't even have any lips.

More fear surges through him, warring with the anger for a place in his actions.

"In due time, Mieczysław."

"You using my name is fucking weird, Mummy Man," Stiles snarls, drawn back into himself and pushed to the far side of the bed like the mere foot of extra distance will save him.

"Do not meddle more, Mieczysław. We will wait."

The world tilts, the white fading into grey to black. His bed seems to reach up and yank him downwards until suddenly he’s screaming himself awake in the early hours of the morning.

…

Silver finger

“Scott, hey!” Stiles skids to a stop, only to grab his best friend by the elbow and drag him down the hallway, free hand waving about as he starts talking, “Remember the key I was telling you about yesterday? Well, when we were at that rave I was talking to Caitlin– the girl who's girlfriend died recently– and when I pulled out the bottle opener I’ve got she saw the key and, apparently, it had phosphors on it- which means it glows in blacklight, right?- and then I asked why I would have phosphors on my key and she asked if I’d been handling chemicals and so that got me thinking about the chemistry closet,” he rambles, pushing open the chemistry classroom door and taking in a gasp of air, shaking out that same free hand, “And the fact that someone had to let Barrow in, and once I got here the key worked on the door and–.”

He wilts. The blackboard had been erased.

“It’s gone,” he knows he sounds unreasonably defeated, bumping his palms together anxiously before spinning on his heel from where he’d gotten halfway across the room, “Well, that’s fine, I still have the key and– what the hell?” The key’s gone from his keyring now. It makes him think back to that weird, stupid dream he had last night. Was that real? Did the other in his head really take action in getting him to stop meddling? “I had it. I had it, right here,” he holds his keyring up and shakes it for effect, the sound rattling almost painfully around his skull, “I swear to god, I had it here this morning.”

“The key you were talking about last night?” Scott has that very confused, lost puppy dog look on his face and in normal circumstances Stiles would laugh at how easy it is to compare his werewolf best friend to a puppy, but instead he’s starting to verge on a panic attack so he just keeps talking.

“Yes! Yeah, that, I showed it to you, didn’t I? Please tell me I showed it to you.”

Scott’s head shake makes his chest squeeze painfully, “No, you told me about it but… I never actually saw it.”

“I was here, Scott! And just a few hours ago I unlocked the chemistry closet door and there was Kira’s name in atomic numbers in my handwriting on the blackboard.”

“So… you unlocked the chemistry closet so Barrow could hide from the police, and then you wrote him a message telling him to kill Kira?” He sounds so beyond disbelieving and it’s not helping Stiles in feeling like any of this was real. He glances down at his hands, wanting to count his fingers in the way he’s started doing too many times for too many days. That’ll just make him look more nuts.

“I know how it sounds, Scott, but– but look at this!” he scrambles to pull the news report he brought with him for extra proof, hands beyond shaky and nearly ripping it on its violent trip out of the bag, “This is the news report that came out about Barrow when they caught him, okay? About the shrapnel bomb that he used. See this, see what he did? He put nuts, bolts, and screws, and then he hid the bomb and the detonator in a box that he wrapped as a birthday present. What does that sound like to you?”

“Coach… It sounds like the joke we played on Coach.”

“That was my idea, remember? That was my idea, that can’t be a coincidence, it can’t be.”

Scott winces, gesturing vaguely for Stiles to quiet down. The human blushes, not even realizing how loud he’d gotten in his growing panic, “I don’t want to tell you that you’re wrong, but I don’t think you’re trying to kill anybody either.”

“It was here,” he runs a hand through his hair and turned back towards the board, “It was all here.”

“Dude… are you feeling okay?”

(He’s losing his mind again, please, please, he thought he was better.)

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just… haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Why don’t you go home?” Stiles turns back around, confused, “Take a sick day?”

“...Yeah, yeah,” he sighs– again, “Yeah, maybe I will.”

(He thought it was over.)

…

“Well, Dr. Gardner’s not back until next week. Do you want to try and wait for one of the other Urgent Care doctors, or…?” Stiles shakes his head, pushing off from the desk and trying to keep from losing himself. He’d come here straight from the school, because he feels like he’s falling apart and some part of him urged to come here, “Stiles? Are you okay?”

His eyes sting with tears and he feels like there’s a dull knife sawing away at whatever is keeping him from going nuts and getting locked up in Eichan House. He brings a hand up to his chest and thumps it against his ribcage, like it’ll slow down his heart rate if he shows it how to work, “I guess, uhm,” thump, thump, thump, “I guess not really?

“Alright,” it’s the way that she says it that makes Stiles want to melt to the floor and cry, while simultaneously making him want to lash out at the way she sounds like she’s handling a feral cat, “Alright, kiddo, come with me.”

He feels like his limbs are going to fall out from under him while they walk through the halls until she stops outside a door, giving him the chance to shake out his hands and rock back on his heels.

She gestures for him to sit on the bed while she grabs a clipboard, “Can you tell me your symptoms?” she glances towards him, then back towards the papers on the clipboard. He’s rocking in place, arms crossed over his empty-feeling chest and flexing his hands to keep from freaking out.

“Blackouts,” he clears his throat and looks away, “But not for that long. Uhm, and sleepwalking, which I used to do a lot as a kid. Some really bad anxiety, too.”

“Panic attacks?”

“Yeah, a couple,” he breathes shakily and it feels like he’s electrocuted his heart in the way it races, “I also temporarily lost the ability to read but, uhm, that might’ve had more to do with the whole human sacrifice and- magic tree thing.”

Melissa is looking at him with an amused smile when he glances over at her and the paper she’s still writing on, “I seem to vaguely remember something like that, yes.” she looks back towards her paper when he doesn’t respond or react, “How many hours of sleep are you getting?”

“Eight.”

“A night?”

“In the last three days.”

He sees her turn to him with the kinda face he usually associates with him having done something wrong in his peripherals, but he’s looking down at his hands and counting on his fingers, cataloging all the times he woke up from nightmares and each night he stayed up until the sun rose only to pass out in class.

“Have you been feeling irritable?”

“Yeah, uhm, possibly to the point of homicide.”

“Inability to focus?”

“No, the adderall’s not working.”

“Impulsive behavior?”

“More than my usual? Hard to tell.”

“Vivid dreams during the day?”

He huffs nervously, “Okay, basically all of the above. Do you know what it is?”

(Please be something normal. Please.)

“I think so,” she turns away, setting the pen down with a deafeningly loud tap that reminds Stiles he’s been in sensory overload for the last twenty-four hours and it’s been slowly dragging him further into the pit of insanity.

He shakes his head, feels his brain rattle around, and then looks up towards Melissa and the needle in her hand, “What’s that?”

“Do you trust me?”

“When you’re not holding a needle.” and when his mind isn’t slipping through his fingers like old jell-o.

Still, he doesn’t stop her when she wipes his upper arm down with an alcohol wipe and sticks it into his skin, “It’s midazolam. A sedative.”

More panic tries to spark, his lungs quivering and his rocking resuming once she’s removed the needle and he can self-soothe again. What if this isn’t real? What if he’s hallucinating again and really he’s acting nuts and this is his hallucination telling him he’s being sedated? “Why are you giving me a sedative?”

“Because you, Stiles, are one profoundly sleep-deprived young man. You need rest, and you need it now.” she puts her arms on his shoulders, effectively stopping his rocking, “Lie down.”

He stares at her, because now it feels like reality is far away and nothing is quite real, like it’s taking years for everything to process while simultaneously not even taking a second, “How long’s it going to take to–,” she pushes him back and he falls with the light pressure, losing the ability to hold himself up with the sudden exhaustion that ripples over him, “Oh. Not long at all.”

“Get some rest, Stiles,” he hears, before reality slips between his fingers.

(Thanks, mom.)

…

It’s startlingly dark when he comes to, wide awake, in the hospital room however long later. The blinds are shut on all the windows but it’s still obvious the sun has set, leaving him in almost pitch black.

At least, it would’ve, but there seems to be a yellow-ish green light coming from somewhere in the room. There’re little specks of opaque something floating in the air, like how you'd see dust particles in a camera. His first thought is that maybe this is another dream, and it makes it that much harder to force himself to sit up.

Instead, he clenches his hands and counts them without looking at them.

(One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine- ten.)

He sits up.

On the folded heavy blanket at the foot of his bed, there’s a fox curled up. It’s not a real fox, no, it’s more like the shape of one made out of yellow-green neon lines. He furrows his brows at it, counting his fingers in the dark again.

(One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.)

It moves. One of its ears twitches. Once, twice, and then it slowly blinks its eyes open. There are two startlingly black dots where its iris and pupil should (probably) be, and they lock onto Stiles.

They stare at each other for a long moment in silence. The restless fidgeting and stimming that Stiles is almost always doing slows to a still while they stare at each other, completely unmoving.

Then it blinks, and its ear twitches again. It turns towards the door, pushing itself into a sitting position.

“They are coming.”

Stiles jolts, breaking out of his trance with a surge of panic, “Who?”

“We are in danger. We must not be caught.”

“Who’s we?”

“They are coming.”

Stiles looks towards the door, and counts his fingers again.

(One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.)

“What do you want me to do?”

It’s weird, the way he knows it's the fox speaking into his mind. The way he doesn’t feel confused or alarmed by this creature, like it’s something he’s gone through hundreds of times–

Something familiar.

“Do not let them touch us.”

“Who’s us?”

“We.”

The fox turns back to him and stares. The statement itself reminds Stiles of the dream - the one with the mummy man. The way he connected it to a potential part of him that aided the mass murderer– maybe it’s something more than that. Something supernatural.

Maybe that’s why there’s a fox here, in reality and not a dream, talking to him in his brain. That means the fox is talking about him, and not itself.

“How do I do that? Who are we talking about?”

“They will come out of the shadows.” the fox rasps into his brain, turning back towards the door, “Bide our time. He will help us.”

“Who’s he?”

“The wolf. He will hide us.”

Stiles looks back at the door, at the closed blinds that hide the light from the hallway. “Should I stay here?”

“There is only one exit.”

“That’s a no then, got it,” he pushes the blanket off himself, disturbing the fox into hopping onto the table by the foot of the bed. It leaps onto his shoulders as he passes by, startling him in the fact it seems to have a weight despite being nothing but a spirit-like creature.

The hallway is empty. Shockingly so, he remembers hospitals always being so overpopulated by nurses and doctors in every hallway. Yet, it’s silent. Not even the sounds of patients in the neighboring rooms reach his ears, and it draws unease into Stiles’s chest.

“Melissa?” he calls, as if she’ll suddenly appear from wherever it is she is. Possibly at home, maybe on the other side of the hospital. Of course, she doesn’t appear, leaving him alone in the hallway with a ghost fox on his shoulders.

He stays close to the wall, praying that the fox is watching his back because it’s going to drive him nuts to keep looking back and forth with the groggy remnants of sleep and a sedative still dragging him down.

Only the faint buzzing sound of fluorescent lights that he normally wouldn’t notice unless already in sensory overload is heard in the hallways. It’s almost funny, actually, how once you hit sensory overload your brain just collects more sensory input for you to notice. Why is that?

He pushes open a door and it brushes against the ground but doesn’t creak at the hinges like he expected it to. It feels like he’s in a horror movie when the double swinging door reveals a small, dark hallway.

“We should turn back.”

“Yeah, agreed,” Stiles backs up, letting the door swing shut, “If they come out of the shadows, does that mean we’re safe if we stay in the light?”

“Without shadow, there is no light.”

“Okay, then what’s the point of avoiding the creepy hallway?” he gestures behind himself toward the doors he’s actively walking away from. He’s moved away from the wall, now standing in the center and under the lights, hopefully giving him enough space to avoid whatever when it ‘comes from the shadows.’

(Why exactly is he following the instructions of a weird ghost fox that appeared after he woke up from a sedative?)

“More light means less shadows, it is harder to reach us in this light.”

“Got it,” he swings around a corner, pushing open another door and thankfully revealing a lit hallway. He makes it about four steps in before the fox on his shoulder pushes itself into a sitting position, ears perking up and mentally alerting Stiles to a threat.

“They found us.”

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” he lowers his voice, turning in a slow circle and surveying the area. Nothing has appeared yet, but he can hear a quiet grumbling coming from the walls. When he squints at them, the shadows almost look like they’re shimmering. Something seems to tap, tap on the shadowed wall, and it ripples like when you throw a pebble into water.

A gloved – is that a glove? or is it bunched up skin? -- hand reaches out in a sharp, singular movement before halting just below the wrist. Stiles startles backwards, signaling him to turn around and see two more hands coming from the wall behind him.

“Shit. How likely am I to die if I run out the door?”

“The wolf is waiting.”

“Not very, then, awesome,” he stumbles over his shoeless feet, socks sliding on the tiled floors uselessly, but successfully makes it out of the creepy room and into the next hallway. He looks both ways, still seeing no nurses or doctors and being invited into an eerie silence punctuated by buzzing lights and growling walls. Internally, he feels a nudge, and turns on his heel toward the left.

He’s sprinted halfway down the hall when Scott turns the corner ahead of him, “Scott!” he shouts, sliding to a stop and looking back at the way he came to see a trio of black clad beings with swords and weird masks that he can’t make out the details of.

“Stiles! Mom said you were asleep!” Scott breaks into a jog, if his sped up footsteps have anything to say, before he appears in the side of Stiles’ vision.

“I woke up,” he flashes a grin.

“We do not have time for this.”

The creatures take a step forward, so he grabs Scott’s wrist to start dragging him away, “We should go!”

“No, wait,” Scott sounds startlingly calm for the actively approaching demons in front of him, “...Why are they after you?”

[futuretrain]

having a very belated realization that tw season 3b was heavily inspired by batman: hush, which was written by jeph loeb, known racist and the writer of the original 1985 teen wolf movie, and which is also a comic that really, really sucks, which means that jeff was ripping off a story that sucks written by a guy who sucks to write a season that ultimately also sucks. the circle of mediocre writing

[lightcreators]

An  gentleness  of  caring  constantly  filled  his  mind  since  circumstances  of  that  old  ritual  :  dying  for  the  sake  of  doing  something  good,  to  be  able  to  protecting  once  more  their  city  of  an  supernatural  threat,  before  coming  back  inside  that  resemblance  of  normality  …  summarized  to  an  temporal  impression  that  could  be  touched  from  time  to  time.  Responsabilities  towards  his  pack,  responsabilities  to  learning  how  to  controlling  and  using  better  his  various  wolf  abilities,  responsabilities  to  protecting  everyone  and  avoiding  best  he  could  future  problems  that  might  show  up  in  Beacon  Hills,  responsabilities  to  managing  his  time  to  had  gardes  for  the  job  he  wanted  to  do,  responsabilities  he  had  as  a  apprentice  inside  another  court  he  was  still  discovering  …  Worries  had  consumed  him  for  an  couple  of  days  about  potential  illness  his  best  friend  might  catch,  where  his  mental  state  degraded  inside  strange  sphere  ---  in  some  way,  it  always  had  been  Stiles,  pulling  extravagance  out  of  his  hat  just  as  he  could  be  brilliant  …  but  lately  the  whole  anxiety  had  been  consuming  him,  along  with  much  more  low-key  worries.  Had  he  been  present  enough  ?  What  should  he  do  to  help  him  ?  It  was  almost  a  one-sided  issue  :  despite  some  morally  borderline  decisions,  he  had  been  the  one  who  had  sought  since  his  transformation  to  anchor  him  in  his  reality  and  find  balance,  not  taking  offense  to  his  shameful  outbursts  …  while  he  felt  almost  helpless  in  front  moral  support  he  could  transmit  to  appease  him  for  a  short  time.  Usually,  nights  projects  were  sometimes  diverged  by  sudden  presence  of  main  concerned  ---  when  he  introducted  himself  by  the  window  instead  to  doing  effort  to  …  enter  unexpectedly by  his means.  Though,  worries  of  that  night  were  possibly  sensations.  He  simply  sensed  it  ---  but  didn't  know  where  it  was  coming  from.  Then,  there  was  the  sound  of  his  own  doorbell.  Stiles.  It  was  almost  obvious.  He  rushed  without  mentally  preparing  himself  to  what  he  could  expressing  towards  his  best  friend.  He  wanted  him  to  be  fine,  it  was  what  his  heart  exposed  at  the  moment.  An  expression  of  surprise  still  betrayed  his  features  to  using  most  common  way  to  inviting  himself  at  home  ---  something  was  wrong.  Stiles  never  knocked  normally  at  his  house  before.  Stiles  never  asked  permission  to  simply  entering  inside  his  house  before.  ❝  Hey  Stiles,  are  you  alright  ?  ❞  He  asked  carefully.  Barely  visible  absence  he  seemed  to  reflect  worried  him,   though  he  hadn't  opened  his  door  definitively.  Something  was  seriously  wrong.  ❝  Stiles  …  ?  ❞

           ˜”*°•.         A  clamoring anxiety,  a  suffocating mist .  He  almost feels  the  tentacles grabbing  him  by the  throat,  squeezing it ,  strangling  him .  Hand still  frozen ,  merely inches  from  the other’s  door .  Knock .  He  can  do  it ,  he can  knock  on  the door,  he can  go  to  him ,  go to  Scott .   And then  what  ,  Stiles  ?   Breathing quickens .  ❝ Stop  it, just  stop  it  . ❞ Words barely  audible  - and  yet ,  he is  right .  He hates  it   but  it’s risky ,  it’s  reckless . You  are going  to  hurt him ,  Stiles .  Eyes  shut  tightly  -  he  can’t  breath .  No .  Control . He  is  in  control . He  can  do  it .  

Button  is  pressed . Doorbell  echoes .  He is  sweating .   Desperately wishing  that  none opens  the  door . What  has  a beginning  but  no end  ?   Eyes are  locked  on   the  door  -  the  sound of  footsteps  ignored . Not  real ,  it’s  not real .  Nothing  but the  door  is real .  But  then it  hits  him . The  answer  to  the  riddle  hits   him;       Death .

Starter for:  @lightcreators