#laurastiles

[halebaccari]

WIP Game (aka Oh Jess, what did you get me into)

tagged by @clotpolesonly

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

hope i’m mistaken

dallison kinktober

denim laura

Allison-maliastiles

braedia vday

swallowed the key new

coralaura ffday

terrible allydia

kinktober 1

50k and make it gay

katya’s pomegranate

allison hale

Dora for CH

a terrible fic

Dira 1

perfume au

new Allaura

Scallira

LauraMarin

the original forehead kiss

braeden-dereklaura

trans apartment au

serial killer malydia

allisonderekscottstiles

ericajacksonmalia

Chris/Malia

mythology allydia

nemeton timeywimey

scileson domestic

i wanna buy a new heart out of a vending machine

fat boydia anniversary

Braeden-laurastiles

Apologies but I’m scheduling this at 5:23 am and haven’t slept, was up all night working so I cannot think up people to tag 😅

[banshee-cheekbones]

sitting on someone’s lap - Laura/Stiles

~900 words, cop/detective au. using this for the ‘cops au’ square on my Teen Wolf Rare Character Bingo Card!

on ao3 here!

It’s been a long time since Laura was in such an overwhelming environment.

The club’s sunken dance floor is a sea of gyrating bodies, swaying in time (for the most part, at least) with the aggressively loud dance music pouring from the speakers dotting the room. The air is rank with the interwoven scents of spilled booze and sweat, and although Laura knows that there has to be air-conditioning, the air is thick and oppressive, as hot as a sweltering summer night. Many of the dancers have glow sticks wrapped around their wrists and throats and the dance floor is awash in ever-changing, pulsating light.

All together, it creates nothing less than an absolute assault on the senses and, given the choice, Laura wouldn’t come in here even if she was dared to.

Alas, she has at least another decade of service to give to the force before she can really start picking and choosing which assignments she wants so, until that point, she’s stuck going where she’s told and doing surveillance on the targets she’s given.

At the very least, she has Stiles with her, and while they’re both committed to keeping their roles as professional partners from interfering with their roles as personal partners, she has to admit that being with someone she actually cares about, actually likes, is making it easier for her to ground herself and focus on the task at hand.

“Didn’t Reyes say this guy usually leaves around midnight?” Stiles asks, craning his head up to yell into her ear. Even then, it’s difficult to hear him over the throbbing bass of the music.

“Usually,” Laura replies, taking a quick glance at her watch. It’s ten past and their target, who is perched in a booth kitty-corner to theirs, shows no signs of leaving yet. He’s a hulking man with shoulders wide enough to fill a door, and he’s spent the last three hours talking to a man equally as large in a suit equally as expensive. Each of them has a girl on their arm, and every bottle of alcohol that has touched their table has been absolutely top of the line.

“Must be an important meeting,” Stiles says, adjusting his arm around her waist. She’s sitting sideways across his lap, side resting against his chest, so that they both have a unobstructed view of the target. When Laura shifts, she can feel his service-issued pistol, which is holstered against his ribs underneath his jacket, digging into her hip.

Nodding in agreement, Laura picks up her phone from the table and opens the camera app. She holds it out at arm’s length and plasters a lopsided grin onto her face, so that anyone who happens to glance over will just assume she’s slightly drunk and taking a selfie with her boyfriend.

In reality, she turns on the forward facing camera, zooms in, and snaps a quick series of pictures. Her phone is a newer model, but the pictures still aren’t great; the ever-changing lighting and distance makes it hard to snap a clean image.

Still, their technical team is one of the best in the state, so she can only hope that they’ll be able to work some magic on the pictures.

The meeting continues for another half hour. By the time their target finally gets to his feet, buttoning his suit jacket with fingers the thickness of a good cigar, Laura’s head has started to pound from the music and strobe lights. As the target ends things with a firm handshake and starts to move, skirting the edge of the dance floor with two enormous bodyguards in tow, Laura pulls the selfie trick again, but switches the camera to video mode. While she records, Stiles uses the hand that isn’t resting on her hip to grab his own phone from the table and send off a rapid-fire text.

“Scott sees the target,” he says, lips brushing against her ear when he speaks. “Him and Allison are taking it from here.”

“Good,” Laura replies, putting her phone back down and rubbing at her temple with one hand. “I’m sick of this place.”

“And here I thought you were having a great time,” Stiles says with a hint of a laugh as he wraps his other arm around Laura’s waist. “Sure you don’t want to do some dancing? Maybe make out on the dance floor?”

Laura lightly swats at the back of his hand.

“The only thing I want to do is go home, eat, and get some damn sleep so that we can process this stuff in the morning,” she replies, waving her phone for emphasis. “Think you can work with that?” Stiles nods and presses his lips to the space right underneath her ear and, headache or not, she can’t help the shudder that goes through her.

“I can work with that. I can order Thai on the drive home. Should get there about the same time we do.”

“Sounds perfect.” Twisting until she’s pressed even closer to his chest, Laura ducks her head and, now that they’re officially off duty, steals a kiss with no shame. When she pulls away, Stiles’ arms momentarily tighten around her, and he presses his mouth to her throbbing temple.

“C’mon babe. Let’s go home.”

Laura can’t think of a single other place she would rather go.

[banshee-cheekbones]

7 and staura please? 💖

7 = silent fury! this takes place between season 3b and 4, in a universe with no Hale fire. warning for Kate Argent mentions! on ao3 here.

“I’m going to take her goddamn head off!”

Laura’s rage-filled voice echoes around the entire loft, bounces off the concrete pillars and glass ceiling. She’s pacing up and down the middle of the main room, her eyes glimmering red. One of Derek’s shirts is wrapped around her left hand, and she’s gripping it so tightly that Stiles is surprised it hasn’t ripped yet.

“He hasn’t been gone long,” Stiles says, his foot tapping a hurried rhythm against the floor, mere inches from a pool of dark blood that has yet to congeal. “She can’t have taken him far.” It takes every ounce of self-control that he has to keep his voice mostly steady; really, he wants to do exactly what Laura’s doing, wants to scream with anger.

And, also like her, he wants to rip off Kate Argent’s head.

“I’m going to kill her,” Laura says, crossing the room and dropping to a hunker in front of Stiles, eyes on where Derek’s blood is slowly staining the floor. “I’m…” She trails off, but her shoulders are still shaking in silent fury, and Stiles leans forward until he can drops his hands to them. He can only imagine how difficult it is for her to stay sitting still, to not simply fling herself out into the night and follow Derek’s scent.

But the rest of the pack is on their way, and while there’s no doubt in Stiles’ mind that Laura is a more than capable alpha, he also knows that there’s strength in numbers, and if they want to take down Kate Argent for good, they’ll need all the strength they can get.

“The others are gonna be here anytime now,” he says, sliding forward to the edge of the chair so that he’s closer to her. “We’re going to find her, and we’re going to make her sorry that she came back to life. Alright?”

Laura nods, long dark hair falling in a curtain around her face, and lets out a long, shuddering breath.

“I’m going to rip her apart.” Her voice is quieter and steadier now, but it’s also deeper, infused with the wolf living inside of her.

“I know,” Stiles says, leaning forward even further so that he can press his lips to the top of her head. “I’m going to help you.”

[banshee-cheekbones]

title: sync up the cuts (to the bass drum kick) [ao3: here]

main pairing: Laura Hale/Stiles Stilinski

rating: G

word count: ~600 words

written for: the 'making music’ square on my Teen Wolf Rare Character Bingo card and for day 2 of Shipping With Stiles 2017!

Watching Laura perform is like watching a tornado decimate a town.

She’s only been singing for five minutes, but her cheeks are flushed scarlet, and her neck and collarbone are covered with droplets of sweat. The glaring lights overhead glint off the hoops threaded through her nose and lip and illuminate the intricate, vividly colored tattoos covering her bare arms, and every time she shifts, the inked wolves and vines and ravens seem to move as well, like they have minds of their own. Her tank top and black jeans, littered with holes from years of wear, are stuck to her like a second skin. Her long, black hair, streaked through with shots of neon-pink and deep red, is a tangled, wild mess, and every time she shoves it away from her face, it falls right back into place. Her eyeliner and mascara are starting to bleed down her face, but her cherry red lipstick is still firmly in place, doesn’t budge as she spits out lyrics that started their lives at the end of Stiles’ pen.

The stage is only a few yards across, and her four inch stilettos have already covered every single inch of it that isn’t taken up by one of her bandmates or a piece of equipment. She’s done a few of her signature backbends, each of which elicited a roar of approval of the crowd, and while she hasn’t yet kicked over a stack of speakers or gone crowdsurfing or swung the microphone cord around her neck (and nearly brained Malia and Erica in the process), Stiles knows that all of those will happen in good time.

As she snarls the chorus of the first song they ever worked on together, she drops to her knees directly in front of where Stiles is standing, sandwiched between the edge of the stage and the rabid crowd. Without missing a beat, she presses one finger under his chin and tilts his head back, until she’s screaming mere inches from his face.

The lyrics coming from her mouth are anything but joyful, but the smile splitting her face, reaching all the way up to her piercing green eyes, is nothing less than delighted.

She stays like that, fingernail digging into the underside of his chin, eyes locked on his, until Malia launches into her guitar solo, the sound as loud and sharp as a buzzsaw. Only then does she close the space between them, pressing a deep, messy kiss to Stiles’ waiting mouth. She tastes like lipstick and peppermint, and although she only has a few moments before she has to sing again, Stiles presses his tongue against hers and slides his hand into her hair.

He feels rather than hears the moan that slips from her mouth.

All too soon, long before he’s ready to actually stop kissing her, she has to go back to singing. With one last press of her mouth against his, she leaps to her feet and goes back to racing across the stage, screaming louder and louder, hair flying around her reddened face.

It’s the same thing that happens every show, happens at the same moment in the same song, but while Stiles has experienced it hundreds of times in hundreds of venues of varying sizes, while it’s long since become routine, the kiss is still his favorite part of Laura’s show.

He's fairly certain that it’s going to remain his favorite for as long as she keeps stepping onto a stage.