#pathetic Stiles is not for the weak

[awakenedevildays]

"does this mean I can be your boyfriend again?" he asks against the skin of your neck, your eyes squeeze shut as you try to form a coherent answer.

"S-stiles-"

“Let me be your boyfriend again, I miss it so much.”

a small snippet of an one-shot I'm currently writing :3

[astracora]

Turning Point - Part 2

Characters: Poly!LADs x gn!mc

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Angst, Loss of Arm, Lots of emotional struggle with disability.

Word Count: 4260

Written: 3rd January 2025

Notes: Pre-relationship with gn!MC with all LADs, with my personal pov of the game and lil headcanons littered in. Unnamed MC, but using my personal MC's basic appearance and adjusted backstory. I take some liberties with what the game offers me. You know I said 'sometime', turns out that was today. I have brainrot. Also, the birth of the group chat!

Now Playing: Hit the Ground, by if found

Masterlist AO3

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You absently stare into the bowl as Zayne sutures your wounds. His hands are steady now, that he has a task. You'd felt him trembling earlier, fingers colder than they normally were, against your skin. At odds with the almost fever you were running.

He's a familiar person to tend to you, you hadn't realised how uncomfortable you'd felt in a hospital without him. Other people putting your broken pieces back together again. Until you'd relaxed at his hands. You're not used to being seen fragile, you don't like it when Zayne sees you like that, but you dislike it even more when someone else sees it.

Though… you can see the others looking at you. Watching as you flinch, at each pass of the needle.

That need to run, to hide, lurks at your back. Trembling. You don't want to be weak for them. Xavier is your partner, he has to rely on you in a fight. You're Rafayel's bodyguard, who can he rely on if he's scared for you. Sylus is far too strong to look at your weakness, and see anything other than a pathetic little cat that's too much work. Zayne will eventually grow tired of helping you, of being there.

Seeing you like this, surely reminds them that you're too much work, that you're a waste of the effort they put into you. Reminds them how fragile the little fluttering organ is in your chest. Pushes you into an unappealing light. Spotlighting every ding and scratch and dent.

Rafayel had eased you through the motions to get clean, gently cleaning around your wounds. Ensuring Zayne could disinfect you, and tend to you. He had kept his face controlled. While you had barely wanted to look at his face, the lack of expression on him had made you peer into his eyes. Seeking out an explanation, information… anything. Desperate to understand what was going through your fish's mind.

Too scared to ask. In case he was disgusted, horrified… hated you. When he'd noticed you trying to catch his eyes, he'd turned towards you. Hand stiling, soap suds on his own skin, soaking through his white shirt. After a moment, his smile, small but familiar, had returned.

"Are you comfortable?"

It was a hard question to answer. You weren't sure you could ever be comfortable, not before, not now. Your body felt off, wrong. Twisted into shapes that didn't fit under your skin.

He ran the sponge gently down your arm, gentle circles against your skin. His other hand on your waist, carefully avoiding any injuries and bruises, thumb rubbing circles, putting pressure in a spot you could fixate on. The heat of his skin a familiar brand. Not unlike the brand that glowed on his neck.

You wanted to reach for his hand, but the limb that wasn't there couldn't move. It couldn't grasp him, and the choke in your throat startled him upright. Hand moving to your face, holding your cheek and grounding you. "It's ok cutie, it's ok." Pressing his forehead to yours and pressing a kiss to the side of your face, "I'm not going anywhere. You have this fishie for life, got it?"

The nod you offer back to him is weak and numb, but you find yourself nuzzling him, seeking him out, eyes closed so you don't have to worry about what you'll see in his eyes. Just what you feel in his hands. Hear in his words.

As Zayne finishes up his work, gently applying bandages to your now clean, freshly tended wounds, he exhales relief. Warm breath against your back, before helping you slip into an overly large button-up of Xavier's to keep warm.

You stare at the sleeve, empty and fallen against your side… you want to tear it off.

It's a violent, angry feeling. Vicious and snarling in your gut. Hissing.

Your hand reaches up, but you wince at the pull on your sutures, and it falls back down. Xavier reaches over, one hand soothing your fingers from where they've tensed into a claw, "Eat, Starlight." before he begins to roll the offending sleeve up. Rafayel hands him some of the bandage pins, and eventually it sits at your shoulder.

It's better. It's not perfect. It's better.

Even if it makes it harder to ignore.

You hesitantly reach for the spoon, lifting it, spilling some of the soup over onto the pillow you'd been clutching on your lap. You ignore it, hunger snapping, and focus on food. The food you haven't eaten since the hospital let you go. It doesn't take long before you're shoveling it into your mouth, hand shaking, and spilling down your chin, but finishing the bowl. Ravenous. You come close to licking the bowl clean, but it's taken away, and refilled before you can. So you resume feeding the beast in your stomach.

Finally, you are sated, and calmer. There is a mess on the pillow you can't even bear to think about cleaning, and you're licking at the mess that spilled down the spoon onto your hand. Before Sylus has a wet wipe in his own, wiping at your cheeks. Cleaning your chin. You blink up at him, his controlled expression. Nothing shining through his eyes, though he laughs a little, "Messy little kitten, aren't you?"

It should be embarrassing, you think it is. You know it should be. You aren't a child, you don't need tending to… but you're so tired, and already so full of emotions you can't name. Twisting around your heart. That this is the lowest concern for you.

If he was going to hate you for being messy, then it's just another thing he can find disappointing about you.

Rafayel laughs, and it sounds more like him, "I told you I make the best fish, cutie." You look over, seeing him watching you.

You feel naked under the adoration in beautiful eyes. Turning away, to look back at the others.

It's… odd seeing them all in your apartment, the little dumb part of your brain provides. It's definitely not big enough for five people. Zayne is next to you on the sofa, packing his tools away. Raffy is sat on the floor, legs crossed, he is playing with party fish in his lap. Squishing its cheeks. Xavier is leaning forwards against the table, arms crossed and chin resting on them, while he has his eyes focused on you. Sylus is leaning against the wall, he has opened the window, so Mephisto has settled on your lamp as a perch, and he flips a coin around his fingers.

You realise absently, that he's ready incase you need something, to move and grab it. Or to refill the bowl again.

When you finally manage to speak, it's a dumbfounded question, asked in a hoarse, sore voice, "When did you all meet?" It's not the most pressing issue, but you cannot seem to move forwards from the image of the four of them here.

Standing in front of you. Not… killing each other? Or at least, not trying to kill Sylus. Maybe they just didn't… know who he was. You'd only ever talked about him as Skye.

Zayne lets out a sigh, pushing his glasses up, and looks over at the others, "Today. Outside your door, except for Xavier, who I ran into when I was chasing up information about you at the Association."

"You have a lot of friends, cutie." Raffy pouts, resting his cheek on the top of party fish's body. "Here I was thinking I was your favourite fish."

It's not really a laugh that you respond with, but it's as close as you can get, "You're the only fish I know, Raffy, of course you're my favourite." His responding smile is soft, eyes wavering like flames, as he looks right at you. Happy to hear even a small bit of joy out of you.

"That needs explaining." Zayne looks over at Rafayel, an eyebrow raised, "Along with the Crown Prince, nonsense from earlier."

Xavier's shoulders jump and he pouts, "It's not important."

"What a terrible lie from a prince." Sylus purrs from where he stands, canines sharp and glinting.

"Says the crime lord."

"Excuse me?" Zayne's hand reaches out to pull you back and a little closer to him, eyes narrowing on both Xavier and Sylus now. "Skye is who?"

"Sylus, actually, dear doctor. Don't worry, I don't bite." His head tilts, looking at you with a smirk, "Unless I like you."

You jump, cheeks heating up a little, turning to look at Zayne who looks ever more like a headache is brewing, and his blood pressure is rising. "The leader of Onychinus… Didn't he try to kill you?"

"How cruel, I wasn't the one shooting the gun."

"What?"

You cover your face with one hand, rubbing at the space below your eyes, where strain is setting in. They notice the reaction, quietening down as you shrink back in on yourself. Tired, worn and aching.

"Take these." Zayne extends the medication you threw, as Sylus hands you a glass of water.

You want to throw them back. If you take them, it means you need them. It makes this reality.

You know that the fact they're seeing you, right now… like this, means its reality. It doesn't make it any easier.

Zayne takes your hand, firm, stable, and cool hand easing yours open, rubbing a circle into your palm with his thumb, before putting the tablets in it. Counted out properly. "Take them." It's as close to an order as you can get, and it's enough to make you ease them into your mouth, taking the glass from Sylus to wash the vile taste away. You almost sputter, but a warm hand gently eases the back of your neck. You see bright red eyes watching you, narrowing, as he helps you swallow.

You feel like you're staring into the abyss for a moment, before they melt into lava, and soften into concern. When he sees you're alright, he releases, but not before tracing your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

"You should sleep, starlight." Xavier frowns, he looks like a sad rabbit, ears drooping. You want to reach over to pat his head, but your arm is sore and tight where the stitches pull. For a moment you look at the prosthetic where it sits on the table.

You'd spent this whole time ignoring it, like if you ignore it, it won't turn into a monster and rip you apart. It sits there, silver metal and black leather. The urge to throw it doesn't come back, which surprises you.

It doesn't look like a beast. Like a monster.

It's just a piece of technology, sitting there, staring at you.

"Or can you tell us what happened? If you don't want to sleep." Xavier adds. Watching where your gaze settles. He reaches out, hesitates, then pulls his hand back. Like he's scared to touch something that hurts you this way. Normally so willing to jump into danger for you, but this… it's a different kind of pain, he can't fight for you.

The offer is said softly. Your partner wasn't there when you got hurt, the guilt in his eyes, for not being there when you needed him most. You have to alleviate it.

He isn't to blame.

You are.

So you put the pillow aside, reaching for one that doesn't need cleaning, and pull it to your chest, needing something to hold to process. They watch as you do, and then you slowly speak.

Explain to them it was just another mission.

Metafluctuations, weak but present, in an old apartment building that was due for demolition. It was a quick check, if anything happened, you were to contact Tara. Hunters in the area ready to step in if it was worse than expected.

There were some knaves in the building, weak and easy to deal with, but too close to populated areas to be left alone. Once they had been dealt with, you checked for any other fluctuations. Nothing had stuck out, your resonance hadn't returned anything to be concerned about.

Until the Myst appeared, another of Ever's twisted tools, swinging its horrific battleaxe around the area, destroying everything in its path. You'd been surprised but you were capable, you'd sent the message to Tara. You'd been ready to fight, before the building shook, its foundations cracking, the walls falling in.

The ceiling falling down.

Debris raining down on top of you, and the framework of the building smashing down around you.

The Myst had gone to attack you, but the pain, the bloodloss, the metal pinning your arm had made you useless. Unable to protect yourself or fight back. You'd pulled against the metal, struggling, but too slowly.

You remember gunshots. Other hunters yelling, but that was when you'd blacked out. Relieved someone had reached you, stopped this monster from hurting anyone else.

If you were going to die, at least you knew one of Ever's tools wouldn't be out destroying more lives. Yours was an easy trade to make for that.

You'd woken up in hospital, arm already gone, wounds sutured, body bandaged. Numb to the world thanks to the anesthesia. Drifting in and out of tormented sleep. Remembering flames, and metal pinning you, as you watched it burn. Watching bones turn to ash, and skin ripping against the strain of your struggle.

You'd been sent home to rest when they thought it safe to let you go, giving you instructions for a psych eval, and the information for your physical therapy. Tara had brought you home, you'd felt numb and empty… but aware enough that you didn't want anyone else to know. No one else to see.

She's suggested calling people, you'd begged her not to. Limbs so weak she had to struggle to help you around. She'd brought you to the apartment, helped you get into bed, and asked if she could stay.

You'd promised to be fine, you'd call her. You promised you'd call her.

You were a liar. Just like Caleb. Promising when you'd wake up, you'd see him everyday.

You'd tried to sleep, you had, but it ached, everything ached, and you kept reaching for your phone with an arm that wasn't there. You kept trying to roll over, but pulling stitches.

The fabric on your bed began to itch and hurt, and bother every part of you. So you'd pulled yourself, heaving, nauseous and dizzy out of your bed. Falling to the floor, where you'd stayed, unwilling to struggle anymore. Not wanting to look at the world around you anymore.

Then they'd found you, a few days later. Exhausted, hurting and just existing in a space where you could only crave a release from it.

Dragging you back into the land of the living.

Zayne looked even more exhausted than he normally did, leaning back a little into the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. Sylus was watching you with a look that indicated he had a lot to say, and was unsure where to start, arms folded across his chest. Rafayel had slinked forward, and had placed his cheek against your lap, hand reaching up to hold onto your leg. Keeping you there, with him. Xavier hadn't stopped staring at you, his starry eyes had dimmed, losing the bright light in them, as he watched you.

Disappointed in you.

You'd messed up, and he'd realised.

Pity.

You were pitiful.

"You're alive." Zayne exhales, voice breaking, as he leans back forward. "You're alive, and that's what matters."

It surprises you. You're not sure why. Zayne has told you many times… all he wants is for you to be alive. That no matter what else, that is what matters. For you to be there, no matter what form you hold. To keep moving, to keep breathing, to keep living.

To live.

You'd teased him for having a low bar for happiness, and he'd smiled, that small but warm smile, looked at you and told you that with you, the happiness came from you being there.

It is a low bar, you suppose, but you are hunted, and hated by people whose faces you cannot even know. You have a job where you fight everyday, to protect others. You exist in a world where your heart could fail you, any moment.

To be alive, means you have not been defeated yet.

It is a low bar… but you suppose it is a starting point.

"I'm alive." You affirm, even though you feel fragile and broken and worthless. Even though you feel like you did all the way through your teen years. Waiting for Caleb to turn his back on you, stop caring for you. Think you are too much work.

You are alive, against all odds, and against anyone's attempts to change it.

Despite fate biting at your heels, to hold you back with thorned chains.

It's enough… maybe. For now.

Xavier stands as your head begins to droop, the days of struggle catching up with you. He crouches in front of you, "Can I please, take you to bed? You need to sleep, starlight." Your nod is unbidden, because truly you can't focus on anything now. The medication is working, and it is moments before you pass out.

The blood loss, the pain, the fear. You are a puppet whose strings are cut. Left in the hands of artisans who have mended broken parts.

"We'll be here when you wake up, cutie. Promise."

"Good night, kitten."

Warm arms lift you like you are a feather, pressed against familiar heat and scent, carried gently. Gliding. You barely register the blankets, but your bed is remade. It no longer smells metallic. As you're tucked in carefully, your lone hand grasps at Xavier, keeping him from pulling away. Scared to face the inevitable alone.

Scared to be alone.

No one there to help when you're at your lowest.

No matter how independent, no matter how long you've fought and moved forwards alone, you don't want to be alone now. When everything is crashing down, and you feel worthless.

"I'll stay." He promises, brushing your forehead, pressing a kiss there. Cool and calm, and tranquil. A starry sky you've stared at every day.

It is enough to push you to the edge, and down into the quiet.

—---

When Xavier reenters the room, he's yawning. Made tired by watching you fall into sleep himself.

He closes the door behind him, hearing hushed conversation and approaches the living room. This time everyone is sitting, even Sylus. Who has settled somewhat since you had left the room, no longer on guard. No longer waiting to appease a desire. Any desire.

"Let me get this straight, you're a lemurian… as well as a famous artist-"

"I'm actually more insulted you don't know my art at all, doc." Rafayel pouts, tightening his grip on party fish. There's the small look in his eye like he wants to throw it at the other man's head, but reigns in the urge. Like a cat debating knocking a glass off the table, but getting caught.

Zayne sighs, and continues, "You're the crown prince of Philos, who… traveled back in time?" He turns to look at Xavier, who settles himself into some of the cushions you kept in the living room for gaming with him.

Xavier shrugs, unconcerned with the title, he hasn't held it after all for a very long time, "I'm just Xavier."

The doctor rubs his eyes again, hesitating on the edge of just walking out. If it weren't for the figure in the other room, sleeping through the pain. This time he looks at Sylus, who is leaning back in a chair like a king, arms crossed and head tilted back. "And you?"

"I'm just Sylus." The man teases, flashing canines that shouldn't be as sharp as they are. "I just happen to run the N109 Zone."

"Right. The natural enemy of the Hunter's Association, and the people who wanted the core in their heart."

"You can mistrust me if you like doctor, but kitten is in no danger from me."

"Hard to believe."

"Well, the best things often are." It sounds like a jest, but for a second the man's eyes soften. Looking for a second at the closed door before they sharpen into gems again, "But whether you believe it or not, I'm here for them."

The doctor looks at Xavier, who barely reacts, face downturned, buried in pillows, he can already tell what question is coming.

Don't you have anything to say?

Can he be trusted?

"Does it matter?" Xavier manages, his finger pointing at the little crow charm on the man's phone, "They trust him."

Zayne and Rafayel both look, then at their own phones. A tiny snowman and a little fish.

Xavier knows his own sports a little star.

Mishapen and messy, made with Tara on an outing you and her had gone on, eager to keep the other hunter company for things. Hungry for friendship.

Companionship.

Connection.

Rafayel groans, leaning back on his hands, legs stretching out, "Cutie makes all the worst friends."

Sylus scoffs, "Friends."

Agitation makes the fish glare, eyes narrowing, and this time the plushie flies at Sylus, who catches it in his EVOL with a laugh. Gently placing it down, so he doesn't damage something you value. "Stupid crow."

"Calm down fish, someone will think you're steamed and take a bite."

No one misses the small blush over the man's ears at Sylus' purr, which just makes the man laugh a little more.

"Well, if no one is leaving-" Xavier starts, yawns, and then forces himself to sit up a little to continue, "we should figure out what to do. Otherwise this will happen again."

Rafayel shrinks, "I've never seen cutie like that. They're always so…" his sigh carries the weight of years he can't share, and he shakes purple hair like he's trying to shed the memories, "strong."

"The strong can't always be strong." Sylus offers, turning a coin in his fingers again, staring off out the window.

Zayne hums his assent, "They need to go to physical therapy, pick themselves back up again. Adjust, as hard as it will be. I can attend their therapy sessions when available, moral support can make the difference between failure and success for some."

"I can help around the house, visit them. I'm just upstairs after all."

"They'll need to eat, and get out of the apartment. See people." Sylus adds, he pulls out his phone, typing a message to Luke and Kieran to prepare a replacement for the door. Sooner than possible.

"I suppose between us we can make sure this works."

"You want us to work together?"

Zayne sighs, "As much as the idea of asking a wanted man-"

Xavier laughs under his breath, but doesn't explain. He does think about the three wanted posters, however.

"for assistance, taking care of someone important to me, I would rather have all of our bases covered, and then to have a wider support system in place. Unless anyone has any objections?"

There's nothing, just a quiet accord between four people. Thinking about the room near them, full of something precious. Worth protecting.

"I suppose we've got a deal, doctor." Sylus nods, standing, "I'll be back in a little while to fix the door. Until then I'll move some things around so I'm more available."

Rafayel hops up, "I'll be right back, I'll grab my current project so I can work from here. Maybe some…" he looks about, "extra blankets."

While Xavier wants nothing more than to sleep, to sit at the door to guard it, to keep watch. The fridge is empty, the bandages have run low, and he wants to look around the area. Wary, on edge. Worrying that Ever have lurked too close.

So he pushes himself up, removing himself from pillows that smell of you, and heads to the door too, "Grocery shop." He offers, through another yawn.

As people filter out, Zayne leans back into the sofa, before rising and heading over to the bedroom. Quiet and careful, he checks on his favourite patient. Though he desperately wishes he didn't need to be your doctor. Didn't need to stitch up torn skin, bandage wounds. Watch you suffer. It tugs at his heart, watching you force yourself ahead.

Rafayel was right. You'd never shown anything other than strength to them. Fighting through injuries, being reckless if it meant protecting others. Taking on mission after mission. He thinks the only time you've relied on them, is when there's no fight to be had.

Relaxing in your personal time, as rare as it is. He's seen you injured, of course, and at your checkups for your heart. But you've always met those with jokes that belittle the seriousness of the situation. A readiness to make light of pain. He has never seen you crumble, hurting and wounded. In a way you don't just bounce back from, because you can still fight injured.

As he strokes your head, gentle and careful not to wake you, he is both aching and relieved. That you'd finally lowered part of your mask, but that it took such pain to do so.

They've at least owned a door for you to step through, easier if someone is waiting on the other side…

Even if the most wanted man on earth had broken it open…

That's going to take some getting used to.

[sageo7]

you were sat cross legged on your bed propped up on the pillows while you scooped weed from your grinder into a pink rolling paper. he was curled up beside you watching you work curiously, stiles had never smoked before despite being best friends with a chronic stoner (you) but today he decided now that classes were out for spring break and he had been overwhelmed the entire last quarter he deserved to relax. plus he had gotten some coaxing from you. you rolled the end of the joint between your fingers holding it up proudly once it was finished and place it into his outstretched palm.

"see. i'm like totally a pro" you declare with a triumphant grin and he just shakes his head replying with "its a little lumpy" making you deflate

"i'd like to see you do better" you say snatching the joint back from him with a playful glare. you fish through the drawer of your bedside table grabbing out a lighter and pad over to the window near your bed where your ash tray was conveniently placed on the sill. he hesitantly trailed behind you and you grab his hand dragging him in closer.

"just relax mischief" you say soothingly adorning the affectionate nickname to make one of his shy smiles creep across his lips. you place the joint between your lips and in a well practiced motion light the end making sure it wouldn't canoe before passing it over to him. with an encouraging smile from you he takes it placing it between his lips "you gotta try and actually breathe in a little" you admonish poking his puffed up cheek where he held in the smoke. he follows your instructions but can't hold in for long before choking and sputtering out a cough making you fall into a fit of giggles patting his back gently. a few more hits and your both bleary eyed and back in bed bickering over what movie to watch.

"..but revenge of the sith is a cinematic masterpiece and plus its your favorite one" he complains trying to snatch the controller from you for the nth time but you reel back "stiles i've probably seen it with you about a million times" you try to reason pushing his hands away but you've created a giggly persistent monster who's all gangly limbs as he tries to pry it from you again crawling to hover over you a little. the proximity unbeknownst to him has you incredibly flustered cheeks red and mind wandering as one of his palms splays against your hip trying to get better leverage as you raise the remote away. in a high induced moment of impulsivity you bridge the dwindling gap between your lips and kiss him an audible gasp ripping from his throat at the contact. it was chaste and timid so he was still reeling when you pulled away, wide eyes locked onto yours immediately in flustered confusion which your racing mind interprets as rejection so you push back hastily.

"i'm sorry.. i'm just.... really high" is all you can push out as your weak excuse. he only takes another second to process before whispering back a breathy "do it again?" and you practically pounce on him, eagerly pressing your lips back to his. the kiss turns desperate and sloppy quickly, clammy unsure hands pawing at any exposed skin he can reach pulling you flush against him as he devours your lips. his tongue runs against your bottom lip before just shoving into your mouth desperately trying to taste as much of you as he can, his hazy mind not registering that he has to actually let you breathe. your hands have to physically pull him back by his hair to get him to part from you both of you panting for air. his fingers dig into your hips slightly as he holds himself from just dragging you back into another kiss.

"please.. don't wanna stop.. dreamed of this for too long" his words are pathetically needy and catch you off guard slightly. "how long?" you ask softly.

"years" he responds a red flush creeping up his neck at the admittance and you can't help but laugh a little in disbelief. he frowns at your reaction his eyes darting away from yours "don't laugh.." he groans out in embarrassment.

"i just.. stiles i've liked you for forever" you recover with a small dopey smile your hands cupping his face the pads of your thumbs tracing against his cheeks. he sighs in relief his hands resting over yours before he leans forward to press his lips to yours again.

☆ hi guys i'm back!! i wrote this when i was very high so no judgement ;) this is for my stoners and the requests for a little friends to lovers vibe. anyways i love y'all and hope you like this one, thanks for all the love on my other posts hopefully gonna be writing more coming up got lots of drafts to weed through lol ☆

[darkintothedawn]

KISSING WOULD INCLUDE... || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — Some headcanons I have for kissing season one/two Stiles!

Memo— I wrote these in the middle of learning physics (save me) 💔

Word Count — 631

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

Stiles is so new to this, and it’s obvious. The first time you kiss him—really kiss him—his brain short-circuits. He tenses up for half a second before completely falling apart, making the most humiliating little noise in the back of his throat. The moment you pull away, he’s already backpedaling, hands flailing as he stammers, “Oh my God—was that okay? Did I do it right? Was that—should I have—? Oh my God.”

He overthinks everything. His head tilts one way, then the other, then back again like he’s buffering. Are his hands in the right place? What if he’s too eager? What if he’s not eager enough? And he knows he should just relax and enjoy it, but his brain won’t stop narrating every single movement in real time. “Okay, yeah, that’s nice—wait, is that my breath or their breath? Am I supposed to be breathing through my nose? Oh, God, what do I do with my hands?”

The moment you touch him—really touch him—he completely melts. The second your fingers slide into his hair, tilting his head just right, a shudder runs through him, and his grip on your hoodie tightens. His entire body leans into you like he needs this, like he’s afraid you’ll stop if he doesn’t hold on.

He’s needy in a way he doesn’t even realize. A quick, chaste kiss? Not enough. A slow, lingering one? Still not enough. His hands fist in your hoodie, keeping you close, breath shaky as he murmurs against your lips, “One more. Just—just one more.” But one is never just one.

Flustering him is too easy. Surprise kisses? Wreck him. Trapping him against a locker, leaning in so close he can feel your breath? His face goes so red, and his brain instantly shuts down. Kiss him with zero warning, and he makes the most pathetic little squeak, practically whimpering against your lips before melting entirely.

If you let him take the lead, he tries to be smooth—fails miserably. Sometimes he’s so eager he just kind of crashes into you, and you have to steady him with a hand on his waist. Other times, he hesitates so much that you have to physically guide him, tilting his chin up, murmuring a soft “Like this, baby.” And oh, that makes him weak.

Desperate. If you kiss him slow, deep, taking your time, he loses it. His breath turns ragged, fingers trembling slightly where they clutch at your jacket. He’s clinging to you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright, and the moment you pull back, he makes the most helpless little noise—like he hates that you stopped.

Praise? Absolutely wrecks him. Call him a good kisser, tell him how cute he is when he’s needy—hell, just let out a soft little hum against his lips, and he’s gone. His breath stutters, his fingers dig into your clothes, and suddenly he’s the one whimpering into your mouth.

He gets so embarrassed over the noises he makes. The first time a needy little whine slips out, he freezes, eyes wide like you definitely didn’t just hear that. His face turns so red, and he immediately groans, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder. “No. Nope. We are never talking about that. Ever.”

After a while, the nerves don’t completely go away, but he stops overthinking as much. He wants to be good at this for you. And when he stops trying so hard, when he finally lets himself get lost in it, he’s so much better. He starts kissing you deeper, slower, hands growing more confident as they slide under your shirt to press against your skin. And that’s when it really hits you—he might be an absolute mess, but he’s your mess.

[noyzinerd]

More Than Just A Body (Swap)

Thinking about a post-body swap Sterek fic.

One that fully takes place after a body swap has already been reversed (like, a sequel to a non-existent fic--where they swapped bodies, had to live as the other, got switched back, yet didn't get together by the end--that's constantly alluded to, but we never actually get to read), so we only see the aftermath.

Derek is super irritated and snippy for days after they get back into their own bodies. Stiles thinks it's because Derek feels pissed and humiliated he had to relive to highschool with insufferable teenagers, be helplessly human and weak, and generally listen to authority again (his dad). It definitely bums Stiles out to think that Derek found living his life so deplorable that he's still angry about it. So now both of them are upset and sort of avoiding each other.

It isn't until two weeks later, when their stand-off is starting to effect pack business, that Stiles gets fed up and confronts Derek.

"What's your deal, man? You've been super shitty ever since we swapped back. It's been two weeks. How can you still be mad about living as me? What, was doing the dishes and being forced to write 5,000 words about the Louisiana Purchase seriously that terrible? Look, I'm sorry you had to deal with my stupid, tissue-paper body for so long, but you can't just-!"

And before you know it, Derek has him shoved up against a wall. He's still pissed, yeah, but, for some reason, he also looks...hurt and broken inside.

"Your body isn't stupid, Stiles! It was the best thing to happen to me in years!"

Stiles is stunned speechless. Derek's fingers are trembling around the grip he has in Stiles' shirt. There's so much pain in those green-blue eyes that it actually aches to look in them. It looks almost like grief.

Like Derek is in mourning.

Derek's not crying, but his eyes are definitely shinier as he continues, "You have no idea what you have, Stiles. What I had. For the first time since the worst fucking day of my life, I got to do normal things, like chores and sports. Not a single person expected anything of me o-or looked to me for answers. I didn't have to worry about fucking up and getting people killed, because the smartest guy I knew was taking care of my body like it was something precious. And all I had to do in return was live your beautiful, quiet life. A life where someone gently woke me up for school and nobody found me too intimidating to get close to.

"I got to know what it was like to be loved by a father again, Stiles! To say the words 'I love you, too, Dad' when I didn't think I'd ever get another chance. I-I got to be hugged and have people smile at me like they were glad to see me and I'd get to look in the mirror in the morning to the sweetest smile at the start of my day and hear your voice every time I talked. It was perfect." Somehow, Stiles has found his face streaked with tears even though the tears valiantly sticking to Derek's lashes still haven't fallen as his voice breaks over his words.

"A-and now? All I get to wake up to is me." The word is spit out with acid and venom. "I get to wake up alone in a cold, silent, empty, concrete room and look at a face in the mirror that makes me sick. I get to go back to my pathetic fucking life where I have to choose between literally fighting against an endless wave of people out to kill me or using my family's blood money to buy myself a microwavable dinner for the night. The only difference is that now...now I'm haunted by the feel of your fingers through my hair, your arms wrapped around me," at this, Stiles can feel his heart cracking apart at the thought of Derek using his body to simply hug himself, "y-your voice telling me that I'm going to be okay, and just-just the sight of your skin and your eyes and-and-I just, I can't, Stiles, I-I can't-!"

Stiles is clutching Derek so tight to him in an instant, tucking him into his neck and slowly lowering them to the ground as Derek collapses and sobs into him.

---

Once the tears are all dry, Stiles finally picks up the courage to be vulnerable too. He owes it to Derek.

At least it'll be easier now that he can't see the werewolf's reactions.

So, as he's stroking the other's hair, Stiles tells him about how he wishes Derek could see the man he fell in love with the way Stiles can.

He tells him about how he fell in love with a man whose heart is so big and full of kindness that he physically cannot stop himself from helping people, no matter how much he likes to pretend that he doesn't care.

The man he loves is powerful, resilient, and stronger than any one person has any right to be, yet so fragile as to be afraid of loving someone too much because he might be shattered.

The man Stiles loves is smart, sassy, thoughtful, stubborn, awkward, grumpy, sweet, and so so deserving of hugs and smiles and kisses and praise, because Derek is and has always been more than just a body.

Stiles tells him about how, during their swap, he made sure to take warm baths with nice smells, nap in cozy blankets, and massage his hands and feet with lotions because Stiles wanted to take care of Derek's body as much as he could while he got the chance. He did it because he wanted to help Derek and this was the only way he thought he could.

If there had been even the slightest indication that anything more would've been well received, Stiles would have already done it. All he wants is permission.

"Please...let me take care of you?"

---

So, slowly, day by day, Stiles enfolds Derek into a gentle life.

Stiles is Derek's strongest advocate, his extra set of hands to help carry his burdens, his pillow, his introduction to new things and new people.

They're always wrapped around each other, all the time, almost like Stiles is scared of Derek getting cold.

Despite the confession, things remain G-rated for a while. Cuddles, hand-holding, caresses, just touching. Shy kisses eventually make an appearance after some time, but they remain sweet, loving little things.

Stiles makes it perfectly clear that he's fine waiting to make a move until he's sure being intimate can't possibly be mistaken as anything else. He needs Derek to understand that this isn't obligation or pity. Stiles loves Derek. And Stiles is going to take his time because he wants Derek to feel loved beyond his body, no matter how long it takes.

By the time Derek feels whole again, now living with the Stilinskis and smiling softly as a default expression, they find themselves in front of the bathroom mirror having their first time together.

It's definitely not kinky. Mostly reverent, full of "It's okay, I'm right here", fingers laced tight together, flashing eyes, and a bit of emotional tears. It's gentle and assuring, with promises of never being alone again, and whispers of "so beautiful" and "so sweet" and "so perfect". Climax is rewarded with praises, hands stroking up arms and down backs, and "I love you"s are slurred through dropped fangs and traded back and forth between kisses

But as expected, finally having sex doesn't magically make Derek love himself. It's still a long road. Because even if Derek doesn't completely hate his life anymore, there are those hard days where he still has problems with 'being Derek'.

And maybe one day Derek will learn to love the body he lives in.

Until then, Stiles will just have to love it for him.

[curses-of-the-void]

Dance with somebody - Derek Hale

Fandom(s): Teen Wolf

Wordcount: 1219

Warning(s): Mentions of sex, story about being bullied, age gap, MDNI

Summary: Winter Formal, dancing, it wasn't exactly her speed, but she's protective of her friends and family.

Sitting on the steps to the gym, she sighs as she rests her chin in her hand, watching couples come and go, music pulsating and lights flashing. When her brother and Stiles convinced her to come to the Winter Formal, she didn't think she'd have to dress for it, or that Stiles would have a date, and Scott would be stalking Allison, leaving her alone. So, she's been shoved, tucked, and zipped into a short dress, face caked with makeup, hair done up, and uncomfortable heels pinching her feet as she stands guard for any sign of the Alpha.

<Does Not Follow The Episode>

"You don't look like you're having fun." Derek says as he approaches the school, hands shoved into his pockets.

"It's a dance. I lost interest in dances, my Freshman year." She replies, looking down at him as he comes to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. "It's not like you, to crash a dance."

"What do you know about me?" He huffs, ad she shrugs, rubbing her arms for warmth.

"You put on a tough front, because you're afraid to be hurt, or to seem weak. You use anger to cope, to have some modicum of control. You refuse to acknowledge that you care too much, especially when it comes to your pack or family." She gives him a grin, as he frowns. "Psych paper's due next week. How'm I doin?" She asks, throwing an arm over her knee, and Derek shakes his head, climbing up and dropping onto the step next to her.

"See, maybe that's why Peter wants to eliminate you. You see too much."

"I just see what is in front of me." She answers, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. "I can't believe I came to this stupid thing. I can't believe that Scott asked me to, after-"

"After?" He urges her as she falls silent, and she shakes her head, rubbing her arms again.

"My first and last dance was Freshman year. I was super excited about "being an adult" and staying out late. Getting to dance with my friends, with a boy." She laughs weakly, shaking her head. "You said it before, that I'm the pushy type, I care too much and let it be known. Well, I was asked by this really popular kid, to the dance, and I got all dressed up, like now... I was stupid."

"What happened?" He asks, looking her over before he shrugs off his leather jacket, tossing it over her bare shoulders, making her jump, looking down at it, before looking over at him with a smile.

"I walked to the dance, because I was too excited to wait to be picked up, but when I got there, he was standing with a bunch of his friends, and they saw me, and started laughing. He asked if I really thought he was serious about asking me out, and then they all started throwing water balloons at me. Some of them were filled with paint, others with rotten eggs, or nasty fruits, and dirty water." She shrugs, not noticing Derek tensing his jaw, clenching his hands into fists. "Learned my lesson then. I'm pathetically hopeful, and people see that. They use it to hurt me, but I refuse to let them use it to hurt others."

"...I'm sorry." Derek apologizes, and she shifts in place, shrugging his jacket over her shoulders more.

"Happens. People are assholes. Can't trust em."

"You're a little young to have that point of view."

"Derek, I'm 19." He blinks in surprise at her. "I turn 20 in a few months. The only reason I'm still in school, is because Scott and I used to live with our dad, but we moved in with our mom when his drinking got out of control again. Mom thought it'd be best for me to start a grade lower than I was supposed to, because of our dad's negligence in our school lives." She looks at him with a sideways smirk. "I'm not that much younger than you."

"I thought you'd be like 18."

"Is that so?" She tilts her head, smirk growing as she looks up at him from beneath her lashes. "Is that why you've been flirting with me one minute, then acting cold the next?"

"I wasn't-"

"Not a child Derek, I know when someone's flirting with me."

"Sorry..."

"Don't be. At least I know you weren't being a creep." She laughs, shivering a bit as she stands, brushing the skirt of her dress down, and Derek frowns, standing to follow her down the steps. "I think the boys and I have the school covered. You can head out."

"Do you have a date, coming to sit with you?"

"Do you see me as the dating type? High school is all about short burnout romances, that last about a week- a month if you're lucky. Last thing I need is some kid mooning over me, once he gets his dick wet." Derek chokes on the sharp inhale he takes, and she smirks, reaching up to pat him on the shoulder. "I'm a big girl, Derek Hale. I know what I want, and I know what boys constantly think about." She laughs at the pallor that overcomes his face. "Too much?"

"Little bit." He replies, and she shrugs off his jacket, handing it to him, but he shakes his head. "Keep it on. You seem to be planning to stay out here all night, and it's just gonna get colder."

"Mm..." She steps closer to him, smile nervous but well hidden as she touches his arm. "Or, you could keep me warm."

"What?" His eyes are wide as she laughs.

"Not that way, weirdo. Dance with me!" She grabs his hand, and he moves easily, looking like he's breathing again after she shrugs on the jacket, then she sets his hands on her waist, then threads her arms around his neck as they start to sway to the slow music coming from the gymnasium. "You'll have to forgive me, if I step on your feet. I've never danced with someone that wasn't stepping on mine before."

"Scott?"

"And Stiles." She laughs softly, shaking her head as he spins her.

"Of course you'd dance with those two."

"For a long time, those two were the only boys who wanted to dance with me." She replies as he pulls her closer.

"Not anymore. You're too beautiful to sit on the sidelines anymore." The husky chuckle that escapes him at her blush makes her blush worsen, hiding her face in his neck. "You're so confident, up until you're complimented." She purposefully stomps on his toe, making him laugh again. "Feisty."

"You like it." She retorts, and he lifts her face with a finger under her chin.

"I do." She stiffens, blush growing hotter as he leans in, kissing her, and she giggles shyly as he pulls away, one of her hands raising to card into his hair, pulling him down to her as she kisses him, making him grin in return.

AN: In my state, you can be in high school until you're 21, then you're required to take the GED test, rather than get your diploma. I dunno about California. Thanks for reading and enjoying!

[hedwig221b]

Have you ever watched sons of anarchy? Theres a couple scenes in season one that just make me think of Sterek. It’s been a couple years so I’ve watched it but ugh I know there’s one for sure that just gives Sterek energy, especially with mafia Derek.

[link]

I haven't watched it, no, but the scene is 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥 I have no idea what's going on lmao but ahhhhhh, if applied to sterek I think it's BEAUTIFUL!

AND THEY HAVE SEX RIGHT THERE????? oh slay

EDIT:: OMG I KNOW WHAT IT REMINDS ME OF! The fucking scene in my fic Treasure lmaoooooo

No one can stop me from putting the scene under the cut, NO ONE

The door creaked open.

Stiles jumped on the bed with his heart pounding. He turned to look at the entrance, but it was covered by darkness.

“Derek?” Stiles called.

There was no answer.

Stiles paled. Chills ran down his back.

The dagger. He left it on the bedside table, right? Stiles swiveled his head to look at each one, but couldn’t find it in such darkness. The floor screeched under the weight of one person, making Stiles look up sharply.

A sharp burst of lightning cut through the darkness.

Someone was standing beside the bed.

Stiles’ scream was muffled by someone’s shaking hand. A body fell upon him, digging its knees into his thighs and pinning him to the bed. Stiles trashed, but the stranger didn’t let go.

“You squirm like that with everyone?”

Stiles’ heart thundered in his chest, echoed by the roar of the lightning. He couldn’t get enough air in his lungs and unfamiliar hands slid over his body, dragging his nightshirt up.

No, no, please, NO.

Stiles sank his teeth into the palm covering his mouth and bit. Hard. Warm, tangy blood sprayed on his tongue, and the newcomer shouted in pain.

In the next moment, the man slapped Stiles across the face. Though it was weak, it still made Stiles cry out.

The stranger, for some reason, cried out, too.

What—

The lightning struck again, and Stiles saw the contorted pale face of Lord Jordan Parrish.

“Do you need an animal to pin you down, is that it?” Parrish was breathing fast. Stiles tried to buckle him off, but Parrish was higher and tougher than him. “Oooh, now I recognize a slut.”

“Get off of me!”

“Not until you give me what I deserve. I want to — lay still — want to taste what everyone’s been talking about.”

Despite Stiles’ struggle, Parrish managed to get a hold of his collar and in the next moment had it ripped apart. Stiles’ rapidly rising chest was bared.

Parrish froze with his mouth open and gaze pinned to the base of Stiles’ neck. Derek’s love bites.

“You’re such a whore,” Parrish smiled like crazy, before leaning down.

He fucking bit him.

Stiles screamed, trying to force him off. “Derek!”

“Oh, no, you don’t, I will have you, whethe—”

Stiles’ fist smashed into his injured shoulder. And that… That made Parrish wail and lean away, allowing Stiles to get one of his legs from under him and kick him right in the face.

Parrish fell on the floor with another curse.

Stiles scrambled to stand up. He threw himself onto the bedside table, but the dagger wasn’t there. Was it on the other side? Fuck, if—

“You fucking bitch.” Parrish’s growl was weak and pathetic, trembling, just like his hands. He lifted himself up and swayed in place. He was drunk. Blood flowed on his lips and chin and dripped down onto his white shirt. “Come here, you—”

Multiple steps shuddered across the floor. A moment later, the light of several candles shined upon the horrible scene.

“What is going on?” asked the Marchioness. She was paler than snow, with lips tight and eyes wide open in shock. She was still in her evening gown. Behind her were her servant girls and advisors, either horrified or confused at the sight.

After a couple of moments of stunned silence, Parrish clasped hands on his chest. “I do admit, I drank a little and lost the way to my rooms. But look at what this boy has done to me!”

Stiles pressed himself to the wall between the bed and the small table near it, struggling to breathe. He couldn’t hold air long enough for his body to do any good with it. He was unable to utter a single word, only stared at people, lost and terrified.

The Marchioness turned to him, her chin high and eyes blazing. “Stiles? Explain yourself.”

The blood pounded on his temples, as he swallowed around a dry throat. He was shaking, worse than Parrish’s hands. His mouth was open but no sound escaped.

“That is what living with the dogs did to him,” Parrish lamented, pointing at him. “He became wild! Dangerous! Incarcerate him!”

“Stiles, I need you to come with me,” the Marchioness called him. She stepped inside and beckoned him over.

Stiles shook his head, feeling dizzy. He can’t go. Can’t. This is not fair. They will not let him go and no one will believe him and Eli will be alone and De—

A tremendous roar forced some people to jump and scream. They flocked to the walls and were right to do so because a moment later the alpha burst through the door.

The water sluiced over him; his white shirt was soaked and translucent, stuck to his body like a second skin. He had his claws and fangs out, his eyes fiery red. His breath was fast and fuming.

No one said a word. People clung to each other, afraid to even squeak. One of the women, a noble one, based on her attire, caught Marchioness Whittemore by hand and forced her to stumble back to the crowd.

Derek’s eyes flickered over the trembling crowd and Stiles’ hunched figure against the wall, before finally honing in on Parrish.

All blood, that wasn’t on the lower part of his face, rushed away from it. The Lord shook his head frantically.

“It’s him,” he exclaimed and shook his head. “He forced himself on me, you all know how he is…”

Derek turned his red eyes on Stiles, tracking down his trembling figure, desperate attempts to draw in air and wide eyes.

And then Stiles realized what the wolf was waiting for. His command.

Stiles had pleaded mercy for the man not once, but two times. Every time he stopped Derek from serving his justice.

He should’ve let the alpha decide. Even back then, Stiles should’ve listened to the wolf’s instincts. Derek had witnessed the horrors people can do, while Stiles was fresh, naïve and clueless.

If the alpha wanted to do it…

Stiles didn’t look away from Derek. His lips stayed firmly shut.

The wolf once said he needed just one word from Stiles to make the man pay. In the end, Stiles didn’t even have to say anything.

Derek bared his fangs and snarled at Parrish. The wolf had taken over completely, enraged and bloodthirsty.

“Mercy!” Parrish begged, falling to his knees. He seemed to age a hundred years. The moon made his eyes look sunken in, and skin dry and wrinkly. He trembled. When Derek snarled at him again, the lord swiveled his head towards Stiles, making him flinch away. He seemed to realize Stiles was the only person who could stop the wolf. “Mercy! Please— AHHH!”

Long and sharp claws buried themselves into his scalp, right at the edge of his forehead, and tugged. The blood burst out of the wounds and rushed down his face, dripping all over the fluffy white carpet.

Derek dragged wailing and trashing Parrish towards the balcony as if he didn’t hear his hysterical ‘NO, NO, NO’, and swung the door open so hard, it shattered.

All of them watched in leaden, dreadful silence, as the werewolf came outside, dragged the man towards the ledge and hurled him over.

Parrish’s screams were silenced by a thick and loud crunching thud.

Someone screeched. One woman fainted, several sunk down on the floor, pale and wide-eyed.

Derek looked over the ledge, then turned around without a flinch and came back into the room. He headed straight for Stiles, who immediately extended his hands. Stiles needed Derek to hold him, to touch and never ever let go.

The wolf picked him up with ease. Stiles pressed himself to him as much as their position would allow, put arms around Derek’s neck and clung.

His eyes strayed to the open balcony door. The sheer white draping flowed softly in the wind. The blood specks were spreading down the fabric, eager to welcome the thick trail of blood leading from the balcony to the room.

Stopping on his way out, Derek turned to snarl at speechless Lady Whittemore. “Do not touch him until he’s dead.”

The woman didn’t answer, just stared at him with tears in her eyes and bloodless lips, pressing herself back into the crowd.

No one dared to stop them from leaving.

[takaraphoenix]

I am starting the year by writing Stalion, so why not start it off by sharing what I'm working on with you. Have a sneak peek into Revenge is a Meal For Two, my upcoming Stalion fic for January 10th <3

--

“This place is… sad,” Aiden commented, distaste heavy in his voice.

Well, that cheered Deucalion up a little. Gerard got to spend his last days and moments in a sad nursing home, abandoned by everyone. Marin paused, and with her, Deucalion and the others. She opened a door, he could hear it and then he was overcome with the scents. Gerard, the rot of death clinging to him like tar, and this unknown person, drowning Deucalion in the scent of honey and making him feel like he was standing in the center of a lightning strike.

“It’s a magic user, there’s a circle of mountain ash around Gerard,” Marin whispered. “And… he is a student of mine. Though I was unaware that he had magic. This is… an interesting development.”

The curiosity in her voice piqued Deucalion’s interest even more. He flashed his eyes red to let him see this powerful boy. Gerard was sitting in a wheelchair, black goo running down his chin and nose. Weak and pathetic. Looming over him was a boy with long limbs, moles dotting his pretty face that was marred by a large bruise. He had turned away from Gerard upon their entrance, the widest doe-eyes staring at Deucalion in surprise, his lashes impossibly long. He was beautiful and truly the picture of his scent. Pretty as prey, yet with a hidden darkness and strength.

“Miss Morrell?” Stiles asked incredulously. “What.”

His voice was near as sweet as his scent and Deucalion let it wash over him. This could be quite interesting. His instincts told him that the bruises on the beautiful boy were related to Gerard and the spicy note of anger and hatred in his scent. All these years of yearning for his revenge and when he would finally get it, there was another wanting their cut of meat. Faced with at least one Alpha – Deucalion’s eyes were still flashing bright red – this boy did not look intimidated or frightened, he stood up straight and with his chin raised, holding Deucalion’s gaze with beautiful defiance. Deucalion had never been one to share, yet this boy made him consider that perhaps, revenge wasn’t just a dish best served cold, it was a dish served for two.

[smellslikemultifandomimagines]

Can I get a void stiles dialogue where he walks on you when you’re in the shower.

Idk if you write for him but I didn’t see him not on your list. Your work is great though! Thank you for doing a lot of requests all the time!

[❤︎] pairing: void!stiles x gn!reader [❤︎] warnings: reader is in shower, I think void is a warning in and of itself lmao [❤︎] word count: 479 [❤︎] a/n: omg thank you so much, lovely!!

requests are open🖤 request guidelines✨ 🌻masterlist🌻 smut night masterlists 💦

WITH YOUR FRONT FACING THE WATER, you didn't see Void entering the bathroom. The shower curtain is the only thing that separates you and him, but still, he knows it's you.

"Oh my, it appears you're in the shower. Oops, my bad." His voice makes you freeze. You pull the shower curtain just enough to take the sight of him in. He looks sicker than sick. You had just seen him yesterday, but he looks even worse now. With his sunken eyes and bags under his eyes that seep into his skin, all you want to do is hug him and let him know he's okay.

"If I wanted an audience, I would've asked," you scowl at him, eyes rolling as you feel every fibre in you being ignited at the sight of him. You hate him. You hate what he's done to stiles. Stiles doesn't deserve this.

"So rude," Void fakes a gasp, eyes beginning to grow darker. This had to be a practical joke. He smirks as you return to the water, practically feeling your heart racing faster. "You fear me."

"In your dreams, maybe." You see his shadow drawing closer through the bathroom's illuminated light onto the shower curtain. He runs his fingers along the material, breathing in the scent of your body wash.

"I feed on fear, my love. You're gonna have to do better at masking it if you want to fool me."

God, is he for real? All you want to do is finish your goddamn shower and be done with the exhausting day.

"You know, I can see why stiles is into you." Oh, and now he's trying to rile you up. Great. Your silence is enough of an answer for him. "Oh, I see. You didn't know."

"Can you fuck off and let me have my shower?" you interrupt, curling your fingers into the palm of your hands.

His fingers stop running along the curtain, lingering for a moment before backing away. "You know, I really have to hand it to you. If it weren't for Stiles being the pathetic weak link of the group, I'd certainly love to see what it would like to be you for a day. I mean, come on, it must be so exhausting, carrying the group on your back. The weight of responsibilities, seeing nearly everyone you love die. What a tragic life," Void is ridiculing you at this point. He smirks once more at your silence.

"Well, thanks for sharing; I really appreciate it," the sarcasm is heavy on your tongue. He has to admit; he quite likes this side of you. He knows he can get under your skin - just as much as he reached under Stiles's. His lips twitch into a jagged grin, tapping lightly on the curtain.

"I'll be back sooner than later. But, I'm sure you already knew that."

[endwersed]

striking out v2 for the wip game!! please please pretty please

I had an inkling this might be the first one somebody asked about 😅

I haven't actively worked on this WIP in... a very, very long time lol, but here's a snippet from the next chapter - the (long awaited) Stiles POV of winter break. This excerpt is from the very start; Stiles' first day back from college.

-

“Everything all right?” is all his dad asks. It still breaks the fucking dam.

Instantly, Stiles is crying. These huge, fat, stupid tears, streaking down his face before he can control them, before he can blink them harshly back into submission. A horrible sob chokes out of his throat, and he drops his head immediately, trying to hide himself with his chin tucked against his chest.

But it’s futile, of course; his dad can see him, his dad can hear him, and it’s less than a second before his dad is in front of him, arms wrapping so tightly all the way around him.

His dad’s chin is firm against the crown of his head, his dad’s hands grounding him as they grip him at each shoulder. Stiles buries his face into the beige material of the Beacon Hills Sheriff’s Department uniform, leaving behind a massive patch of wet, right there on the shirt, right there beside the scratchy thread of the sewn-on emblem. Stiles’ arms hang, limp and useless, at his sides, and he cries.

He feels like a child, a tiny, stupid fucking child. An adult, a goddamn college student, sobbing into his dad’s chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s pathetic. He wants to stop. He wants to be strong. He just wishes he could fucking stop.

“Stiles,” his dad breathes, an urgency to it, his breath tickling Stiles’ scalp. “Please don’t cry, kid.”

Oh, if only Stiles was in control like that. He hiccups this choked, hollow laugh around the relentless fall of his tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers back, and shame sweeps all the way through him, because how can he be doing this, how can he be crying like this, to his dad, of all people, making him fucking worry, like he doesn’t have enough to worry about, like doesn’t have a whole entire town to worry about, “I’m sorry, dad, shit, I’m so sorry, I’m – I – I –“

“Breathe,” his dad cuts in, gentle, insistent. “It’s okay. Just – breathe.”

And Stiles – breathes. One, two, three.

Eventually, and slowly, the flow of tears dams back up. His chest stops feeling quite so tight, and he lets himself pull out of his dad’s hold, sniffing around a long, choppy exhale. He scrubs roughly at his cheeks with one set of knuckles, gaze dropping guiltily down to the damp stain of his breakdown left behind on his dad’s shirt, and he bites his bottom lip between his teeth as he finally lifts his eyes to meet his dad’s raised eyebrow.

“I’m okay,” Stiles says quietly, another miserable sniff and a weak smile. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.” The frown on his dad’s face grows more severe, more concentrated. “What did he do this time?”

Of course. Of course, his dad knows who the cause is, without even having to ask.

It’s true that his dad has seen him cry before, more than a few times. Sad movies, every now and then. When his mom died, obviously. At his graduation party, after a few too many sneaked beers, sobbing right alongside Scott at the realisation they were really going to be living that far away from each other.

But, more than anything else – his dad has seen him cry over Theo. More times than either of them can count. His dad knows, today is no exception.

-

Ask me about one of my WIPs!

[hiseyebrowsaregone]

Lydia: I sleep with a knife under my pillow.

Allison: Weak. I sleep with a gun.

Stiles: You're both pathetic.

Allison: Oh? What do you sleep with?

Stiles: Derek

[selmasemlan]

Luna's Triumph Over Shadows

Summary: In a harrowing mental battle against the Nogitsune, Luna Salvatore confronts her deepest fears and emerges victorious, fortified by her inner strength and the unwavering support of her loved ones. Her resolve to face the future is strengthened, knowing she is no longer alone in her fight against the darkness.

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x Luna (platonic), Isaac Lahey x Luna (platonic)

Author note: I'm back with another part of this fic. I just can't stop

Warning: panic attack, trauma, implicated abuse

Word count: 1302

Series Masterlist

Luna's Triumph Over Shadows

The dark, twisted corridors of Luna Salvatore's mind felt endless. Shadows clawed at every corner, whispering insidious fears that sent chills down her spine. The cold air was thick with the acrid scent of dread, each breath she took saturated with anxiety. She wandered through the eerie landscape, the oppressive silence broken only by distant, echoing screams. Every step was a struggle as if the very ground was trying to swallow her whole. She knew she had to find the strength within herself to face the greatest threat she had ever encountered—the Nogitsune.

Luna’s thoughts were a chaotic swirl as she struggled to maintain control. Her powers, heavily reliant on her mental fortitude, had been twisted and corrupted by the Nogitsune’s malevolent influence. Now, in this final battle against the ancient evil, she had to delve deep into the darkest recesses of her unconsciousness to defeat him.

Suddenly, the setting shifted with a nauseating lurch, and Luna found herself in a small, dimly lit room. The oppressive walls seemed to close in on her, the air thick with the stench of decay. She recognized it immediately—the room from her childhood where her stepfather had tormented her. Panic surged through her veins, cold sweat trickling down her back. Her heart pounded in her chest, each beat a thunderous reminder of her fear.

Her stepfather appeared before her, his menacing figure casting a long, sinister shadow across the room. His eyes gleamed with malevolent glee as he sneered, “Hello, Luna.”

Luna’s heart raced, and she fought to steady her breathing. She knew this wasn’t real, but the fear was overwhelming, suffocating. “You’re not real,” she whispered, her voice trembling, each word a desperate plea for sanity.

Her stepfather took a step closer, his presence suffocating, a dark cloud of terror enveloping her. “You’re still that little girl,” he said, advancing toward her with a predatory smile that sent shivers down her spine.

“You’re not real,” Luna repeated, her voice growing more frantic. She pressed herself against the wall, the cold, clammy surface doing nothing to calm her racing heart. “You’re not real,” she said again, her breaths coming in short, desperate gasps, each one a struggle for control.

He continued to approach, his shadow stretching out to engulf her, a looming specter of her past. “You can’t escape me,” he taunted, his voice echoing in her mind, each word a dagger to her sanity.

Luna slid down the wall, her legs giving way beneath her as the weight of her fear bore down on her. She wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking slightly as she tried to ground herself in the present. “You’re not real,” she repeated, her voice barely a whisper now, choked by terror. Her chest tightened, the air around her seeming to thicken, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

Desperately, she began hitting her knees and thighs with her fists, trying to break free from the paralyzing grip of her panic attack. “You’re not real, you’re not real,” she chanted, each word a struggle, a lifeline in the storm of her mind.

Her stepfather loomed over her, his face twisted into a cruel smile, his eyes glinting with sadistic pleasure. “Poor little Luna,” he said, his voice a sinister whisper that cut through her like a knife. “Still weak and pathetic.”

Luna’s vision blurred with tears, her breaths coming in ragged, desperate sobs. But then, a spark of realization ignited within her. She might still be terrified of this man, but she was no longer the helpless child he had once controlled. She was Luna Salvatore, an evolved witch with immense power, forged from years of hardship and triumph.

“You’re not real,” she said one final time, her voice gaining strength, each word a declaration of defiance. “You’re not real, and you can’t hurt me anymore.”

Her stepfather’s image flickered and began to dissolve, his grip on her mind weakening. Luna took a deep breath, focusing on her inner strength, and the illusion shattered completely. She found herself back in the dark corridors, but this time, she was not afraid. She stood tall, her fear replaced by a burning determination.

The Nogitsune materialized before her, his eyes gleaming with arrogance. “You think you can defeat me?” he taunted. “I am a thousand years old. You cannot kill me.”

Luna regarded him calmly, her fear replaced by determination. “Maybe I can’t kill you right now,” she admitted. “But I can seal you away, giving me the time to find a way to end you once and for all.”

The Nogitsune’s smug expression faltered for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. Luna seized the moment, summoning her power. With a wave of her hand, she began to weave a complex spell, ancient and powerful.

The air crackled with energy as Luna’s spell took shape, bright tendrils of light wrapping around the Nogitsune like chains. He roared in defiance, his form writhing as he tried to break free, but it was too late. The bindings tightened, glowing brighter with each passing second. “This isn’t over!” he hissed, his voice laced with venom and desperation, his form flickering wildly as the spell took hold.

Luna stepped forward, her eyes blazing with unwavering resolve. “No, it’s not,” she agreed. “But it’s the beginning of the end for you.”

With a final surge of power, the spell completed, the Nogitsune’s presence banished from her mind. The force of the expulsion sent shockwaves through the air, shaking the very ground beneath her feet. Luna collapsed to her knees, breathing heavily, her body drenched in sweat. She was exhausted but victorious. She had faced her greatest fear and emerged stronger.

As the echoes of the Nogitsune’s final roar faded, a small, relieved smile tugged at Luna’s lips. The nightmare was over, for now. 

Luna woke up with a start, her body drenched in sweat, the haunting echoes of her ordeal still ringing in her ears. The familiar surroundings of her room came into focus, but the weight of the trauma clung to her like a shroud. She felt a comforting presence beside her and turned to see Isaac Lahey, his concern evident as he gently grabbed her arm.

“Luna, are you okay?” Isaac asked, his voice trembling with worry.

Luna could only shake her head, the sobs she had held back threatening to break free. Without hesitation, Isaac pulled her into a tight hug, holding her as if she might disappear at any moment. She buried her face in his shoulder, and the tears finally escaped, pouring out in a torrent of pain and relief.

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, the silence punctuated only by Luna’s muffled sobs and Isaac’s soothing whispers. Gradually, she pulled back slightly, her voice broken but filled with a newfound determination. “I will be,” she whispered, her words carrying the weight of her struggle and the promise of her resilience.

Isaac nodded, his arms still wrapped around her, offering an unspoken vow to stand by her side no matter what. His presence was a lifeline, grounding her in the reality that she was no longer alone.

As Luna regained her strength, her thoughts drifted to Stiles and Scott, her brothers in all but blood. They had been her anchors, her unwavering support through every trial. With them and Isaac by her side, she knew she could face anything that lay ahead.

In the aftermath of the battle, Luna stood tall, her resolve unbroken but tempered by the harrowing experiences she had endured. She had faced her deepest fears and subdued an ancient evil. The fight was not over, but she was ready for whatever came next, bolstered by the unbreakable bonds of love and friendship that had guided her through the darkness.

[maria021015]

Upon hearing the sharp knock at the apartment entryway, Allison moved into the hallway. Twisting the doorknob, she opened the front door and stepped aside to allow Scott, Ethan and Aiden inside.

“My father said all of the Katashi evidence is being moved to a federal lockup by armoured car tonight - probably within the next few hours.” The huntress relayed to them the information she’d spent the past twenty minutes discussing with Lydia. The two girls had already formulated a plan to retrieve Katashi’s silver finger, hoping that it would hold the Shugendo scroll that would free Zaida and Stiles from the Nogitsune’s control.

“We're going to rob an armoured car?” Ethan deduced, his brows raising in disbelief as he followed the others further into the apartment where Lydia was waiting by the doorway into the living room.

“Well…” The redhead tilted her head and lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. In her opinion, it was worth every shot they could take to get their best friends back. “We're going to try.”

Zaida ran the pathetic excuse of a bar of soap over her body, rinsing the non-existent suds off her skin and out of her hair for the second time that day. But Malia had wanted to freshen up before bed, and it gave Zaida an opportunity to better learn the layout of the facility. At least this time she didn’t have to tediously scrub off dried blood with her bare hands. When she was finished, she twisted the rusted knobs to shut off the weak flow of water. As the sound of the spray lessened, her ears perked up to approaching footsteps. Wrapping a thin towel around her body and tucking the corner in so the fabric would not fall, she stepped away from the wall of showers. A familiar figure walked into the bathroom in what appeared to be a hurry, facing the line of sinks and mirrors spotted with age.

“Okay. Okay, just got to stay awake, Stiles. You just gotta stay-” The boy’s muttering trailed off when he caught sight of Zaida’s reflection in the mirror. She stood between him and Malia, blocking the werecoyote from view. Not that he could see much through the thick haze of steam clouding the space. He immediately gaped at the unclothed naiad, unable to stop himself from glancing over his shoulder. His eyes locked onto her, studying her barely concealed form with lips parted in surprise. The swell of her breasts peeked out from the towel’s edge, skin still slick with water as her damp hair clung to her neck. Then, as if the thought had just occurred to him that he shouldn’t be looking, he tore his gaze away awkwardly, staring at the floor.

“In case you’re wondering, yes, you did just walk into the girls’ room,” Malia commented blankly, unbothered by the possibility of the boy seeing her naked.

“Malia is very comfortable with nudity,” Zaida explained, adjusting the towel around herself. The way Stiles’ eyes had darkened as he looked at her for that brief moment before turning away had not escaped her. She knew he wanted her. It was no longer a secret how he felt about her. Only, as she tilted her head at him curiously, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Right, uh-I…I’m sorry,” He stuttered, blinking at the tiled ground. “So, uh, what’re you girls doing?”

Stiles cursed himself for his one stupidity as the words slipped his mouth, his features scrunching as he cringed. “Showering,” Malia answered nonchalantly, still revelling in the heat of the water.

“I can see that! I mean, I saw that.” He rushed to correct his words, fumbling over his tongue in the process. His mind was a fuzzy mess, still distracted by the sight of Zaida in nothing but that tightly wrapped towel… “Well, actually, I didn't see anything, really...I just...There was too much steam to, uh... Not that I would prefer there to be less steam…”

“Stiles, I don't care. In the woods, there were no boys' and girls' rooms.” The werecoyote stated, rolling her eyes at his dramatics.

“Or clothes,” Zaida added, and it did nothing to draw Stiles’ mind away from the fact that beneath that towel was only bare skin. She smirked subtly at his reaction, watching the slight way his eyes bludged and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly.

“So, uh, you’re not gonna get out of the shower?” The boy suggested, his back still turned to both girls as he averted his gaze anywhere but at them - or the mirrors.

“Not yet,” Malia shook her head, allowing the water to fall through her hair, taking her time.

“She likes the heat,” Zaida offered the boy an answer for her bizarre behaviour. “Since she shifted back to human, she’s always cold.”

“Maybe she just has a low core temp.” Stiles pondered a possible reason for the anomaly - anything to try and calm the racing of his heart. “You know, she might just be sick, or…”

“I used to have a fur coat.” Malia ended his rumination bluntly, shutting off the water when she realised he wouldn’t be going away anytime soon.

“...Or, it could be...Hey, it might be that.” He murmured rapidly. “It's probably that.”

“Come on, Mal, put a towel on before the poor boy has a heart attack,” Zaida teased, handing the werecoyote a bundle of soft white fabric.

“So you two, you’re, uh…friends now?” Stiles commented on the girls’ easy dynamic.

“Nothing else says ‘bonding experience’ quite like being roomies in an insane asylum,” The naiad snorted, and Stiles sighed in relief when he could finally turn around without fear of seeing something he shouldn’t - and quite frankly, didn’t want to.

“I don’t do friends,” Malia clearly stated her stance, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Don’t take it personally,” Zaida advised Stiles, who was caught off guard by the stark contrast in her disposition between now and the last time they’d properly spoken. When she’d entered the group therapy room that morning, he’d expected more recognition than the blank stare she’d offered him before sitting down. He wondered briefly if something had happened to prompt her cold attitude. “Coyotes tend to be into individualism.”

“So then this is…what? An unlikely alliance?” He tried to make sense of the strange initial forming of what appeared to be a bond between the two. It was a far cry from the greeting he’d received.

“You’re wondering why she punched you?” Zaida deduced from the words he didn’t say.

“Well, uh, yeah, actually,” Stiles nodded, his brows twitching towards each other in confusion.

“If it makes you feel any better, I punched her too.” Malia shrugged and Zaida swiftly interjected, holding up a finger.

“Correction - you tried to punch me. I did punch you, though.” She pointed out, and the strange lack of emotion regarding the situation was unnerving to Stiles. It set him on edge.

“But…why did you punch us?” He questioned, still not understanding the motive behind the act of aggression.

“Did you think I was going to thank you?” Malia arched an eyebrow challengingly.

“No.” He shook his head, then paused with a slight wince. “Maybe. We did kind of save your life…”

“Here we go,” Zaida huffed and took a step back, knowing he’d just prompted a rant.

“You're right, Stiles. Thank you! Thanks for invading my home...for putting me on the run...for turning me back to human, so that I could look at my father every day and try to figure out how to explain to him that the reason my sister and mother are dead is because I almost ate them on a full moon.” The werecoyote pursed her lips tightly. “Thank you so very much.”

Stiles was silent for several moments as Malia’s explanation only added to the growing mass of guilt within him. “We were just trying to help…”

“You want to help me? Work with Zaida to find a way to change me back!” She demanded.

“You want to go back? To being a coyote?” Stiles gawked at her, unable to fathom why until he remembered her reasoning.

“Exactly,” Malia nodded. “And Zaida said an alpha named Scott McCall might be able to do it.”

“Yeah, he might,” The boy dipped his chin, cogs in his brain whirring to come up with a solution to all of their problems. “But that means we get to call in a favour.”

“Okay,” She agreed instantaneously, desperate to go back to the way life was before being forced to shift. “What do you want?”

“I need to get into the basement…” Stiles’ eyes fell on Zaida, forcing his mind to remain on track. “We need to. Which means that we need to get the keys off of that orderly - the big one.”

“Brunski?” The werecoyote clarified.

“You help us, and we’ll help you.” He promised, and Zaida’s eyes sharpened as she wondered why he wanted to get into the basement so badly - even more so than his urge to escape the day before. Either way, this would present the perfect opportunity for her to cause some strife. The holes in her still-forming plan seemed to fill themselves out perfectly.

“This is a really bad plan,” Scott commented, running his hands through his hair as he sat on the couch, Lydia perched on the armrest. The Banshee and the Huntress had just run them through the outline of their heist plot.

“It's not that bad…” Lydia bristled, slightly offended.

“It's not that good!” Ethan protested, sinking deeper into the opposite couch.

“None of us knows the route they're going to take. If Allison can get one of her dad's GPS trackers on the armoured car, then we can follow it. So, when it gets here-” Lydia pointed to a spot they would inevitably have to pass, highlighted on a large map that was spread across the coffee table.

“We attack 'em?” Aiden interjected with a nod, following along.

“No.” Lydia stared at the twin admonishingly. “Your bikes will be in the middle of the road, looking like you guys got into an accident. And, when the driver gets out to help-”

“Then we attack 'em!” Aiden interrupted once more before the redhead could finish. She knew that if Zaida were there, the naiad would certainly have something to say about his affinity for violence. Which, to be perfectly honest, was somewhat hypocritical considering Zaida and Stiles were always the first two to support a more aggressive - though still logical - solution. But Zaida wasn’t there, which only served as a further reminder of why pulling this off was so important.

“No!” Both Allison and Lydia exclaimed in simultaneous frustration.

“You'll distract him, and Scott will break open the back door.” Lydia corrected

“...I hope,” Scott mumbled to himself, unsure of the likelihood of this plan’s success.

“And you'll get Katashi's finger.” Lydia encouraged the werewolf, confident in his abilities.

“It's not his actual finger, is it?” Ethan questioned, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the notion.

“We are so out of your league.” Lydia scoffed, shaking her head at the lack of enthusiasm in the room.

“Why aren't we just going to Stilinski for help?” Ethan suggested, not understanding why they would go through such efforts when there was seemingly a much simpler solution.

“Because, if he gets caught, then it's the Sheriff tampering with federal evidence,” Scott explained. With Agent McCall breathing down Noah’s neck, it wasn’t possible for the man to have anything to do with this. The last Lydia had heard, The Sheriff was out of town consulting with specialists in case Stiles’ diagnosis still remained true.

“Guys, this is going to work. We can do this.” Allison attempted to raise their forlorn spirits. “We're losing Zaida and Stiles...My dad and Derek are in jail for murder...We need to do this.”

Everyone knew the huntress was right. They couldn’t afford to not take this chance. Not with so many people’s lives on the table.

“See that guy over there,” Zaida crossed her arms, leaning her hip against a wall as she faced Malia, nodding towards the sandy-haired boy from group therapy.

“You mean Oliver?” The werecoyote clarified, looking over. All of Eichen House’s residents were currently enjoying free time in the common area of the facility. The boy in question was shifting from foot to foot with an empty smile on his face, looking entirely too naive for his own good.

“I mean the boy that looks like he sleeps with a night light,” Zaida identified what had drawn her attention to him in the first place - an easy victim. “He’s perfect.”

“I don’t know,” Malia titled her head, unsure of the choice. “Oliver’s pretty stable.”

“I don’t think anyone in here is stable - that’s kind of the whole point,” The naiad snorted, insisting on her choice. “Trust me, he’s the one.”

“What do I tell him?” Malia questioned, accepting the decision.

Zaida thought for a moment before a slow smile spread across her lips. “Tell him you heard another patient was trepanned.” She stated mischievously with a glint in her hazel eyes.

“What’s that?” The wereocyote’s brows furrowed in confusion, not recognising the term.

“Trepanation? It’s an old medical procedure where a hole is drilled into the skull. In the fifteen hundreds, it was thought that it released evil and demonic spirits from the soul.” The irony of the matter did not go over her head.

“That’s stupid,” Malia stated but wasted no more time before marching over the Oliver and engaging with him in conversation. Seeing the girl walk over, Stiles nodded at Zaida from the other side of the room, walking over to wait behind a corner so as not to be associated with what was about to happen.

Surely enough, the innocent glow on Oliver’s face faded to an expression of horror and he lashed out with his fist. The blow landed on Malia’s jaw, knocking her backwards before she was tackled to the ground where Oliver pinned her. “You're lying! You're a liar!” The boy screamed in her face, spittle flying. As planned, Malia remained calm, controlling her aggression with the promise of what she would receive should they succeed.

“What the hell's going on?” The senior-most orderly rushed onto the scene, exactly as expected.

“You're lying!” Oliver was still losing his mind, his face going bright red.

“Get this nutjob off of me!” Malia called out for help, and orderlies rushed the scene. Now it was Zaida’s turn to act.

“No! She said that they drill holes in your head! She said they're gonna put a hole in my head!” Oliver yelled as Brunski wrapped an arm around his neck, hauling him off Malia. Only Zaida saw the glint of light reflecting off metal as Malia got to her feet, lifting the keys from Brunski’s belt and folding them within her closed hand.

Zaida quickly rushed over to the werecoyote, helping her stand and shielding the sight of her passing on the keys with their bodies. “Please, come on! Please, don't…” Oliver was still sobbing and shaking as he was dragged away. “Please don't drill a hole in my head!”

Zaida nodded knowingly to Malia as two remaining orderlies gripped her arms and pulled her away too, likely taking her back to their room. As soon as the area was clear, Zaida slipped around the corner, bumping into Stiles and slipping the keys into his pocket in a fluid motion.

“Sorry,” She mumbled a faux apology, locking eyes with the boy. He must have seen something unfamiliar because his brows dipped in concern.

“Are you okay?” He asked her in a tender voice, starting to worry about the girl’s apparent despondency. There was nothing of the girl that had broken down in his arms only a few days ago. Not for the first time, he wondered if she had started to realise that everything that had happened to her was his fault. He wouldn’t blame her.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” She insisted forcefully. “Now go. Unlock the door and then lose the keys and head back to your room. We’ll come get you when the night shifters circle around to the left wing.”

Stiles dipped his chin and followed her instruction, headed towards the door that led to the basement he’d become so transfixed by. As soon as he was out of sight, Zaida walked straight up to a female orderly. “Excuse me? I think a patient stole something from one of the staff members,” She reported. "Well, a few things, actually."

Scott pulled on his hoodie over his t-shirt, preparing to face far more than the incoming wave of winter chill that night. As he turned towards the front door of his house, ready to meet up with the rest of the pack, he found himself face-to-face with a dark-haired girl.

“What are you doing here?” He asked her, having purposefully not given her any details about their plans.

“I want to help,” Kira answered insistently, not taking no for an answer. She stood before with hopeful eyes.

“I'm not sure it's such a good idea…” Scott trailed off. His heart wanted to cave, but he knew better than to allow it. Kira was new to all of this - very new. If anything bad happened to her he would certainly feel personally responsible for involving her. He’d been the one advocating to tell her the truth about everything.

“Because of my mother?” The kitsune guessed - incorrectly . She assumed that since the woman was clearly involved in everything that was currently unravelling in Beacon Hills, they may not trust her either.

“No, I know that's not your fault.” Scott shook his head, denying the claim but not offering an alternative.

“Yeah, but it still feels like it is. And, if I can help, shouldn't I?” Kira offered once more, revealing to him just a small part of the guilt she carried for her family’s involvement.

“People who help us usually end up getting hurt...Badly.” The werewolf finally caved and explained the true reason why he was so hesitant to allow her to come. He remembered Erica and Boyd, and what had become of them both.

“Okay, but I've been practising-” Kira promised, defending her growing skill set.

“Practicing what?” Scott tilted his head at her curiously, and she pulled her belt from around her waist, whipping it outwards.

“I've been picking this up really fast - like crazy fast.” She smiled and the metal links solidified into one long, connected form with a sharp edge, almost taking off Scott’s arm in the process.

“...You sure about that?” Scott chuckled, ducking out of the way quickly and thanking his werewolf reflexes for likely saving him his limb.

“Sorry,” Kira grimaced bashfully, gripping the hilt of her katana and stepping back to allow for some room. “Watch!”

Kira focused on her reflexes and the way her muscles called to her, following their orders as if they had memorised some ancient dance she didn't remember ever learning. The sword moved as though it was an extension of her, spinning and obeying her every command as she twirled through move after move. When she was done with her demonstration, Scott was left silent with his mouth gaping wide open in surprise.

“Okay…” He nodded eagerly, acknowledging her abilities with an impressed expression. His worries dissipated as he realised she’d certainly be able to hold her own. But it was also more than that - she could be a powerful ally. “You're coming.”

“Let me out!” Stiles was screaming, thrashing on the white floor of the padded room as Malia snapped the lock and she and Zaida barged in, kneeling by his side.

“Stiles!” The werecoyote whisper-shouted, shaking him awake from his nightmare. The boy shot up into a seated position with a jolt and a loud, ragged gasp.

“No, no, no!” He cried out, half-sobbing and fighting against Malia’s grip as Zaida stood back, watching. Everything was working out exactly as she wanted it to - exactly as he needed it to. Brunski had caught Stiles trying to break into the basement with the keys he’d stolen and had discovered the illicit drugs Morrell had provided. Without those meds…well, Stiles had been forced to sleep. Zaida was willing to bet those lightning bolts zig-zagging across Stiles’ body would be fast retreating by now.

“Hey, hey, hey…” Malia tried to get the boy to quiet down so as to not draw so much attention to them. The night shifts were run with half the number of staff, but he was yelling loud enough to attract anyone within a three-corridor radius. Her patience did not take long to wear thin. “Shhhh! Shut up!”

“How…How did you get in here?” Stiles’ gaze darted from Malia to Zaida, his heart instantly calming as soon as he laid eyes on the naiad.

“I broke the lock. If I concentrate, I can be pretty strong…” Malia shrugged, getting to her feet. “Get up.”

“Malia says there's another way to the basement,” Zaida answered what would inevitably have been his first question - what’s going on?

“Yeah, it’s through the closed unit.” The werecoyote nodded. “Where they keep the real psychos.”

“That’s where I was,” Zaida jested dryly with an arched brow, opening to door to the quiet room and holding it open for both Malia and Stiles to exit first. “Before I got transferred.”

“Great, so you know the way,” The werecoyote brushed off the comment, not understanding the humour behind it. The girl’s emotional intelligence was severely lacking.

“Thank you,” Stiles said to her in a tender voice, amber eyes shining in his gratitude. “For coming for me.”

Zaida smiled softly and he walked ahead, leaving her with a tugging at her heartstrings that didn’t fade as easily as the rest of her emotions. “Don’t thank me just yet.” She muttered to herself.

[bigskydreaming]

Okay, so here’s a thread for listing my various Teen Wolf projects available to follow up on in the server. Again, if and when these reach actual stages of completion, like I get a full one-shot done or complete a chapter of a WIP, they’ll still be posted for anyone to read. However, because there’s a lot, because I’m a lot, lol, there’s also way more than I’ll ever realistically be able to complete, so if you don’t mind that, OR want to try and urge me towards making sure one in particular gets more added to it or even completed, my patreon could be worth it in that respect.

For an example of the kind of content you’d find in the fanfic sections but NOT my Ao3.....here’s something for a one-shot set post-series, about Scott and Theo’s dynamic....none of this is the actual fic itself, its more just ABOUT the fic. Kind of a snapshot of what I wanted to explore in it, to refresh my headspace and get me back in the mindset I was in when I originally thought of it. But enough friends have assured me that people might be interested in just this as it is, that its worth offering up for your enjoyment even if this doesn’t end up being a fic I pick up again and complete.

The Not So Minor Details

Post-Series: The thing about Theo was at the end of the day, he probably understood Scott better than anyone else. Even his mom. Even Stiles. Hell, especially his mom and Stiles. The closer you stand to someone, the easier it is to let the little details pass you by. So sure you already see everything that’s there to see, you don’t bother with the second glances, the double-takes to check if that fleeting look you caught just a glimpse of before you looked away was actually something you needed to pay attention to, instead of just assuming you’d already know if it was. 

Theo understood Scott better than anyone else, because when it came to Scott he took nothing for granted. He researched him, compiled notes on him and his interactions with everyone in his life. Did his homework, studied every inch of Scott McCall until he was ready to ace his final exam: knowing all the right buttons to push to get exactly the reactions he wanted Scott to have.

That kind of awareness of someone, the intimacy of knowing thy enemy so fully and completely you could slip right into their skin and be them, should they ever shed it for you to find and seize the opportunity….well. That doesn’t go away just because you’ve decided your enemy is now your ally. Just because you no longer want to use your the knowledge of them - that you’ve wielded as power that has hurt them, power that’s still there for the taking and could just as easily be used that way again - to do exactly that. Just because you’ve decided you don’t want to kill him anymore. Mostly.

 Knowledge is power and power doesn’t stop being powerful just because you’ve locked it away in a drawer where you don’t have to look at, face the temptation to take it up and use it to do terrible things again. You can vow never to touch it all you want…that doesn’t keep you from knowing, remembering its there, seeing it right within reach any time you change your mind and decide you want it after all. Or even if you don’t.

 Yes, Theo knows Scott better than anyone else, and that knowledge is just as sharp-edged as it ever was. It’s the weapon he used to kill Scott once, and it hasn’t been blunted by time or lack of use. It could be just as lethal in his hands now as it was back then. He hasn’t been defanged, tamed, domesticated. Lost any of his bite, his fangs and claws the slightest bit of their sheen.

The others might think Theo lurks on the outskirts of the pack like a toothless supplicant pathetically hoping to someday make his way back into Scott’s orbit, while they all know he never will. That they don’t have to worry about him anymore because he’s too weak to be a threat now that they know to be wary of him….and at the same time, he’s incapable of making the gestures, the acts of contrition that might get him back in Scott’s good graces. Reposition him where he can once more be the Iago whispering self-fulfilling prophecies of doom in the True Alpha’s ear when no one else is around - or paying enough attention - to counter any his poison-barbed words.

 Its actually pretty fucking hilarious how wrong they all are.

Because the thing is - the thing that Theo knows about Scott, that he’s pretty sure Scott knows he’s figured out about him - the thing is, all it would take is two little words to worm his way right back through the very same chinks in the pack’s armor that left Scott exposed and vulnerable the first time around. It’d literally be that easy to repeat all the same moves to all the same outcomes, right under the rest of their noses. Because they were all so focused on their told you so’s and being right about him, so insistent that it’d been a simple binary equation all along, a “should you trust Theo” just needing a yes or a no and Scott’s cardinal sin was he’d selected the wrong one instead of just picking the one they told him to…. 

They were so intent on the ‘what’ of Theo’s betrayal, the acts of breaking apart their pack…they never bothered to pay attention to the ‘how’ of it all. Never bothered shoring up those weak spots in their defenses as a pack….because to do that, first they’d have to acknowledge where those were.

 But Theo knows where they are, where they’ve been all along, and Scott knows it too. The irony of it all is they’re both equally incapable of pointing them out to the others - Scott because he doesn’t know how to get them to hear what he’s saying when he says I’m only human, I hurt too. That “I might be an Alpha werewolf but you all have power over me too, your expectations and needs and fears shape everything I do.” Or how “when you hurt me, it matters, my pain means something too, even if I can physically heal faster than you. When you hurt me, I need you to care enough to tell me you saw me hurting and you’re sorry.”

And Theo, well, he could point out how the only thing he needed to make Scott want to believe in him, was treating him as someone as much in need of help as he’s needed to help others. Creating a space for him to be vulnerable in, encouraging him to let himself be vulnerable….because Scott was that desperate for release, for any chance or audience to vent to, about all the stresses and traumas and anxieties everyone piled on him, expecting his super-strength to bear the load…that he was primed to leap at the first opportunity to confide in someone who wasn’t expecting him to have any answers, who just wanted to listen to his fears and insecurities about not having any answers to give anyone…

Theo could point all that out, but the thing they all know about Theo….is they won’t ever trust a word he says.

 Not even the ones that are true.

[seraphicsage]

void stiles but you kill for him to prove you love him and are just as psychotic, maybe trying to get lydia to join too and teasing her coaxing her into being your good girl, almost like she’s yours and stiles pet or something, lots of rough kisses from stiles too

A/N in theory this is part 1 of a 2 part fic. I would love some kind of response from this! Whether you liked it, what you’d like in the second part etc, let me know what you think! (Not proof-read)

It was just so simple. All I have to do is kill someone. Then no one can deny that I’m not some innocent girl who knows nothing about the world. All I have to do is kill someone for him and I’ll prove myself, and prove that I’m not a liability, he’s not the only crazy one here. It’s just, so, simple.

The question is, who? Who can I kill that makes all of his plans so much easier? Lydia would be easy, but I have bigger plans for her. Scott… Allison… Isaac… god so many choices. I need to think about it carefully. If I kill Allison then Scott and Isaac will come after us a hundred times as hard. If I kill Scott then Allison will do the same. The only solution? Kill them both I suppose.

The best part is, they’re stupid enough to trust me. So it’s easy to spike their drinks. Honestly the hardest part was getting something that knocks out a werewolf. Once they’re knocked out I drag them to my storage locker outside of town. I take every measure I can to make sure Scott is as weak as possible when he wakes up.

God is it worth every moment I’ve spent faking a laugh and a smile to him and his pathetic pack. Waiting for something, for this. The look on his face when he realises, the look on both of their faces. And oh, they’re so trusting they think I’ve been possessed. I laugh and quickly stomp on that dream. Poor Allison tries to escape, clearly her hunter training isn’t as good as she thinks.

The next question is who to kill first. I’ve always hated them both, and their whole woe-is-me act. I want to make them suffer for everything they’ve done to me. But I don’t have time. This needs to be swift. I’ve decided I want this as bloody as possible, if I can’t play with them first then I can at least make a mess.

I take my knife out, my favourite one, the handle has such pretty patterns engraved into it. Stiles gave it to me, oh if he knew what his loving gift would be used for. Well, he’ll see soon. I decide to start with Scott, swiftly slitting his throat and watching the blood gush from it. I feel adrenaline rushing through me and fuck it feels good. I can see why people get addicted to this.

I turn to Allison, watching her sob for a moment, hearing her beg. For what? Mercy? Not a chance. I hold her jaw and lift her face so I can look straight into her eyes as I kill her, watching the life drain from her. God that felt good. I close my eyes and replay the moment in my mind, and look at their blood soaked bodies in front of me.

Then I feel him, standing behind me. He walks closer until his front of pressed against my back, I don’t dare lean into him, or look at him. “I was wrong about you.”

“I warned you.” I say in return. I did. I feel him nod, I can’t see his face but I know that it’s the picture of indifference. “I’m glad I don’t have to listen to their pathetic whining anymore.” I smirk, looking between their bodies again.

I feel him chucking and now I know he’s smirking. I turn around to face him, he looks satisfied. Like he got what he wanted without even having to ask. I suppose that’s true. He has.

He looks down at me and I feel him grip my waist. “I don’t usually like to be proven wrong.” He says as he leans down towards me.

“Usually?” I ask when his face is almost touching mine. I watch him glance at my lips briefly.

“Think you can keep up this innocent girl act with that pack if I handle the bodies?”

“I’ve been playing that act my whole life, nothing’s changed.” I confirm. “Besides, I have my own plan, and they need to trust me for it to work.” I would have expected him to be against me having my own plan, my own want out of this. But clearly I was wrong because the next thing he does is curses through his breath before pressing his lips firmly on mine, pulling me closer to his body.

I bring my arms up behind his neck and pull him in further, taking everything he gives me. He pulls away from my lips and starts pressing kisses against my jaw and down my neck. Sucking and leaving marks, I’m not sure how that would go down with the pack but right now I can’t make myself care.

Then he stops and brings his mouth close to my ear. “He’s screaming.” He whispers, and I can feel his grin. “You hurt him.”

“He hurt me first.” I whisper back, teeth clenched. His kisses continue, but softer this time, almost like he’s trying to provide some comfort.

“The screams are getting louder, it’s like he’s sobbing now. He’s begging for you.” He pulls back and grins at me. “He’s apologising.” He says in a teasing voice, like he’s making fun of Stiles. The idea of Stiles apologising, of begging and screaming for me, that only spurs me on further and I pull Void’s head back to me, this time taking control for myself. And he lets me.

We spend the rest of the night together, he takes care of the bodies the next day, leaving me in the clear, and back to the innocence act.

The pack is in panic of Scott and Stiles’ disappearance. I take advantage of the panic by making moves on my plan. I had been working on it for a very long time, before Void even, this just meant I could move the plans forward.

Since Lydia and Jackson broke up, me and her have been very close. It started off as a normal friendship, study sessions, sleepovers, girl talk, the normal. Then I started amping it up, flirting. At first subtle, so subtle she’d feed into it without realising. Then I would build it up, I started being more touchy. Acting more comfortable around her, and she’s done the same.

She even changes in front of me, which is quite the show. She’s so comfortable that I’m able to distract her mid-change so she ends up staying out of her clothes longer than she would think.

One thing I’ve noticed about Lydia over the years is that she doesn’t get much approval from people other than teachers, for anything other than her looks. And as much as she is a beautiful woman, that’s not her whole personality. So, I started praising her for things. Starting with the big things, a good grade, an achievement, that kind of thing. Then I did it more, whenever she did an assignment, whenever she ate, whenever she drank water, literally anything.

And then, I took it away. I stopped. Sure I still came over and spent time with her, but I wouldn’t watch as she changed, I wouldn’t praise her for her achievements, I completely pulled back on all the affection. And it was so pretty how quickly she crumbled.

After a week of this I go over to hers unexpectedly and let myself up to her room, where I hear her crying. I knock lightly and open the door. “Lyds? It’s just me.”

Her body shoots up to look at me and after a moment she starts sobbing harder. I rush over to hear, pulling her in closer asking her what’s wrong, what’s happened. Of course, I already have a pretty good guess but she didn’t need to know that. I feel her pressing herself harder and harder into me, like she’s trying to soak in my touch before it leaves again.

I let her, stroker the top of her head and lightly shushing her until she calms down. When she eventually stops crying I get her to sit up and make her explain why she’s so upset.

“You- you-” She stutters over her words, avoiding looking at me, until I grip her jaw and bring her face towards me.

“Me what Lyds?” I ask gently.

“You don’t want me anymore.” I let my face relax, looking sympathetic.

“What are you talking about? Why would you think that? Why would you even care if I did?”

“I-I didn’t think I did, I thought I just liked the attention but I need it. I know it’s pathetic but I just- you make me so happy. And you’ve stopped paying attention to me. And I don’t want to do anything if you’re not there helping me.”

Her words made a very twisted part of me, very satisfied. I use my grip on her jaw to pull her closer to me. “Darling, I want you. I’m sorry I stopped giving you the attention you clearly need, I’m here now, and I don’t need to leave.”

She looks at me, like she’s checking that this isn’t a trick, I don’t falter. “Thank you.” She whispers.

[sterek-ao3feed]

Pathetic and Weak

Read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/61030090

by theonlyblackcanary

Derek Hale is the sadistic ruler of Outworld and Stiles Stilinski was the king of Edenia who was supposedly forced to marry Derek and killed himself, leaving his son Eli to be raised by Derek.

Words: 4164, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV), Mortal Kombat (Video Games 2023-)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Categories: M/M

Characters: Eli Hale (Teen Wolf), Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Hikari Zhang, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Shang Tsung, Nightwolf (Mortal Kombat), Fujin (Mortal Kombat), Sheeva (Mortal Kombat)

Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Additional Tags: Game: Mortal Kombat 11, Evil Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Evil Derek Hale, Evil Stiles Stilinski, Sex on Furniture

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61030090