#god I forgot how much I adored this story

[solsticelosthermind]

I actually read through those long fics I keep complaining about having abandoned, and oh my god, I have so many notes in those docs, and so much already written, and it’s so good?? I love it so much?? I think I’m going to make more of a dedicated effort to straighten those out. It seemed to be helpful, bouncing between projects, rather than just. Languishing in my agony when the words aren’t wording.

anyway blah blah some sentences not-Sunday—have about 800 something words of the sterek fic because I’m kicking my feet about it:

Picture-wolf nodded, his eyes wandering as he thought. Then, the little notepad was back. “Touch the glass.”

“...why?” Stiles asked, even as he let his hand hesitate over the surface.

“Please.”

“Not really an answer,” but it wasn’t like he had anything left to lose.  He shifted, so he could still see the man beside his hand. “Now what?”

Ridiculous as it seemed, he felt a frisson of ice drip down his spine at the thought of being hauled inside the frame. He couldn’t even figure out how to get off the Hale’s property, nevermind out of a freaking picture.

Almost too fast to follow, the man laid his own small hand against Stiles’ palm, slashing down with all five nails. Yelping, Stiles wrenched his hand back, gaping at the five tiny lines marking his skin, each seeping little ruby droplets. 

“What the—” but when he looked up to snap at the man inside the picture, Stiles stopped dead, his jaw hanging open. 

His blood left faint trails behind on the glass, smudges that the man was cleaning with his tongue. If it hadn’t been his blood, then it might have been comical instead of turning his stomach. “Lesson learned,” he croaked, edging away, back to his books. “Stay away from the terrifying blood thirsty moving pictures.”

A laugh rippled across the room, soft and mocking, rooting Stiles to the spot as he watched the little man throw his head back. Staring didn’t help it make sense, so Stiles switched to eyeing the thin slices on his hand. They’d already stopped bleeding. He looked back up, just in time to watch the man lick the last traces of red from his mouth. “Um. What the actual fuck is happening?”

“Oh good, it worked.” The man gave Stiles a pleased, mischievous grin. “I wasn’t sure.”

“You weren’t— what— how are you talking?”

 “All things considered, you’re not very bright, are you, kid?” The voice, which matched the motions of the man’s mouth, was softer and higher than he'd have expected, just like Derek’s. Belatedly, Stiles bristled. 

“I suppose it’s to be expected, new lamb like you. Don’t take it so personally.” The man cleaned his claws with a careless dip into the lake behind him, drying them absently on his jeans.  “And the ‘what’ being my very rudimentary knowledge of blood magic.”

Stiles flailed his arms out with a high pitched, “You magicked me?”

“Not quite. Come on, Stiles. You just said this yourself: your reality includes werewolves and curses, now.”

“And blood magic,” Stiles said, flatly.

“Naturally. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone except you will be able to hear my scintillating wit, but beggars can’t be choosers and all.” The guy gave an airy flutter of his fingers. “More importantly, Derek’s licking his wounds somewhere we can’t get at him, and you’ve got a nearly feral puppy running around the house.” 

That pulled him back together quickly. “Erica’s not feral.”

The man sighed, shaking his head. “She’s a newly turned wolf with zero guidance and her Alpha’s run off. From what we can tell, the only reason she’s even half as cognizant as she is is because of her bond to you.”

There was too much in that one statement for Stiles to even begin to process. He focused on smaller parts, talking almost to himself. “Derek’s her… Alpha? Because he bit her. Except Alpha wolves are crap.”

Another huff of laughter. “In actual wolf-wolves, yes, that study was utter bullshit. But we’re human, too, and that’s what makes things muddied. We need a head wolf, an Alpha wolf, to protect and nurture the pack’s spark.”

“Okay,” Stiles turned away, pacing back and forth before the man’s frame, scrubbing at his hair. It stabbed unpleasantly into the shallow cuts on his palm and he winced, dropping and flexing his hands. “Okay, so maybe part of the reason she was okay before was Derek’s proximity. But she almost lost it in the woods…” He shot the man a puzzled glance. “I calmed her down just fine? Made her listen to my heart.”

The man gave a noncommittal shrug. “And if you think Derek let you two wander off alone, then you’re going to need to pay better attention.”

Stiles deflated. “But you said I’m keeping her sort of okay?”

“In theory, yes. She seeks you out and uses you as…” he hesitated, blinking. “Something of a touchstone. Bear in mind, all we can do is watch and make assumptions. We don’t know either of you. Maybe she’s just very strong willed.” He shrugged, eyes keen on Stiles. “But whatever it is, it isn’t strong enough to anchor her to her humanity. She’s going to hurt you.”

“We,” Stiles repeated, pulling himself straight. “That’s the second time—“ He paused, swallowing as his eyes went wide. Turning, he looked at the other, empty frames. “She was moving,” he murmured. “That wasn’t from missing my dose.”

Stiles ducked his head to bring himself down to the man’s eye level. “Derek said the Hales never left. All of you? You’re,” he made an all encompassing gesture. “Stuck in the photographs?’

“All of us,” the man returned, sounding strained, creases appearing around his eyes. “Every single one of us, save my nephew.”