#sterek wip

[hedwig221b]

WIP Whenever

Requested by the loveliest @emmmna, here's a small bite of my sterek twilight au

Derek’s smile was light. He reached out, thoughtlessly it seemed, and pulled the string of Stiles hoodie from where it was caught under his shirt. He worried it between his fingers, then looked up.

“What?” Stiles asked with a tentative smile.

“Promise me you won’t go into the woods alone.”

Derek’s quiet and serious tone made the jokes stick in Stiles’ throat.

“Are there… other creatures?” he asked carefully.

“Yeah,” said Derek, and, just like that, the smirk was back in place. “Like, twenty mountain lions.”

“Oh, come on…” Stiles groaned.

“What did you think I was going to say? Vampires?” Derek snorted. “Beacon Hills is our territory, baby.”

“Dang it,” Stiles pursed his nose, trying to hide how much ‘baby’ affected him (very much). “There goes my dream of someone sucking my—”

Suddenly, Derek tensed. His head swiveled up, his gaze zeroing in on the road behind Stiles’ shoulder. Alarmed and mentally preparing for his dad’s interrogation, Stiles followed Derek’s gaze but saw nothing and no one.

He frowned. “Wha—”

“I gotta go,” Derek said, more annoyed than afraid. He smiled apologetically at Stiles and hopped off the porch. “I’ll text you.”

“Okay?”

Derek hesitated, staring at him with an almost pained expression.

“Fuck it,” he cursed, then flew up the porch.

Stiles froze in place, fully expecting to be kissed right this fucking second.

Hot hands cupped his neck, sending shockwaves down into his heart. Stiles stared at Derek, his eyes wide and his soul trembling in anticipation.

But Derek didn’t kiss him.

He rubbed Stiles' neck in firm, deliberate moves. If he had put just a tiny amount of his strength into the touch, he would’ve choked Stiles. Thumbs swiped over the sharp line of his jaw, then down, caressing his wildly beating veins. The heels of Derek’s palms pushed into Stiles’ clavicles and at the same time pinned him to place.

The heat filled Stiles’ cheeks, his whole face and neck. Standing in front of the predator, whose existence he couldn’t even dream about, between fight and flight, he couldn’t help but fawn.

No one held him like this. No one cared to. And if someone did, there was a big chance that Stiles would’ve fought out of the hold, swept by panic and anger.

Now, he wanted nothing more than to bare his neck.

Derek’s hands shook when he released Stiles. He swallowed thickly, then glanced at the road, cursed under his breath, and ran off the porch. This time, he didn’t return, instead jumping into his car straight away. He drove off with a squeal of the tires and disappeared around the corner.

Stiles cleared his throat, finding it coated in desert sand. He lifted his hand to rub his flaming neck, froze it halfway, clenched it into a fist, and lowered it. He didn’t want to ruin… whatever it was.

[divider source]

Tagging gently 💛 @endwersed @patolemus @renmackree @salty-fryingpan @gege-wondering-around @dear-massacre @demonicfaerie @teencopandthesourwolf @eevylynn

[teencopandthesourwolf]

If he were to be true to himself, which he generally isn't when it comes to this shit, Derek knew he was fucked the very first time he met Stiles Stilinski—no, actually, that's not entirely accurate. It was before that. He was fucked the second he smelled the kid's unique scent hitching a ride on the damp breeze that cut through Beacon Hills preserve on that fateful day, just over two years ago, when Derek stood on his family's land and tapped a claw against the plastic casing of the inhaler he'd found. The inhaler he'd sniffed out from the undergrowth in the middle of the night. The inhaler sitting inside the pocket of his dead Dad's leather jacket that he'd recovered from the ruins of his childhood home. The inhaler he'd returned the day after he played pretend with himself that it had been him who had bitten Scott McCall.

Derek has been playing pretend ever since.

But how is he supposed to pretend now, with the rogue piece of Stiles's clothing screwed up in his fist and him finally home alone in his own apartment? Worse (or better) is the fact that it's the kid's favourite beloved hoodie, the one he wears all the goddamn time which Derek can tell hasn't seen the inside of a washing machine in a while because of the way it reeks of nothing but pure, unadulterated Stiles.

Stiles's red, red hoodie.

Derek's eyes flash blue to remind him of who he is, at the same time as his fangs drop and his short nails extend into yellowed claws. Absently, he thinks of Little Red and The Big Bad Wolf when his form shifts, his resolve shattering like mirror glass as he accepts his seven years of bad luck with grace the moment he shoves his face into the fabric, now releasing that throaty groan that turns to a low growl then into a sex-hungry, shuddering snarl.

He inhales.

Deep; deeply; deeper.

And Derek is lost to Stiles, forever.

.

(from my current sterek WIP fic—let me know in the comments if you'd like to be tagged when it's up!)

[honestlydarkprincess]

WIP Wednesday!

tagged by @theotherbuckley, @haeva <33333

okay i've already shared this in parts through the wip game but here have a lil snippie from stiles didn't know they were dating

“I’m sorry,” Stiles rushed out, unable to take the tense silence anymore. He wanted to be eloquent, to explain himself in a way that made sense but the words burst forth before he could stop them.

Derek sighed heavily. “It’s fine. Obviously I misread things. I think it would be best if you left, though. I need— I need some time.” His voice broke at the end and Stiles felt sick.

“I can’t— not yet,” He murmured, staring at Derek. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

Derek laughed bitterly. “Yeah, there was. I thought we were dating. We weren’t. You made that quite clear this afternoon.”

“No, you don’t understand—” Stiles tried again, only to be cut off.

“I understand, Stiles,” Derek said tiredly. “I really think it would be best if you just left, okay? I’m not mad at you. I really just need some time.”

“No, I’m not leaving,” Stiles said firmly.

“Stiles—”

This time Stiles was the one to cut Derek off. “I’m in love with you!”

The silence was deafening. Stiles could almost hear the wheels turning in Derek’s head.

tagging: @bigfootsmom, @lonelychicago, @father-salmon, @underwaterninja13, @eddiebabygirldiaz

@thiamsxbitch, @hemlocksandfoxgloves, @fruchtfliege, @ksbbb

@beyourownanchor6, @rathockey, @usersiren, @holdmygum, @darrys-laundry

@shyaudacity, @vanmarkus, @devirnis, @maygrantgf, @exhuastedpigeon

[dontcallpanic]

For the WIP game - I'd love to hear about Derek's little shop of horrors! 😄

Thanks SO much for the ask! This one is actually inspired by two Tumblr posts. One was about artisan baker Derek and his beautiful sourdough loaves and the other was a non-sterek post about this after hours bakery that all kinds of strange eldritch creatures and horrors visited to get their baked goods, paying in strange ways.

So this is Derek's little bakery for horrors and one day, one of his creature clients pays him with a wish. Derek accidentally wishes for Stiles, the sheriffs son who comes in at all hours, who Derek has had a devastating crush on for years. Lots of angst occurs because Derek believes Stiles is only interested in him because of his wish. Given his history, he tries everything in his power to resist the magic of the wish that keeps pushing them together.

Stiles meanwhile has spent so much time and money at the strange bakery that seems to always be open, even at 3 in the morning, partly because the pastries are to die for but mostly because he is madly attracted to the surly baker. He just can't understand how he's suddenly always bumping into him. It's almost like the universe wants them to be together or something.

additional extras: ancient creatures that are deeply amused by these squishy creatures and their inability to communicate with each other.

[theyjusthowl]

Tidbit Tuesday for my sterek fic of doom

Have I been absent for three weeks? Why yes thanks for asking I'm loving working on my master's thesis on why representation on TV matters and being mean on Twitter is bad.

Incidentally, I cannot stress how badly I need a beta reader to bounce ideas around please message me I'm nice and totally normal about Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski.

There is a witch in the woods and, much like many other creatures drawn to Beacon Hills, she’s parched with a thirst can only be quenched through pain. She comes from a distant life she barely remembers, other than the rotten florals that follow her, so she hides in the evergreen.

Nobody knows this, but there is a witch in the woods. There has been, for quite some time now, trapped and desperate to find a vessel. It has to be perfect. It has to be someone, but it can't be anyone. She must be patient and find the perfect person, one that would go to the greatest lengths, who would trade a life for a life for a life.

It has to be perfect. She won't have it any other way.

At first, because this liminal space she inhabits is familiar in ways she cannot recall, almost out of a vision, known to someone else in some other time, she waits, she gets acquainted with everything that makes up the forest and the town and the bleeding sky in the heat of summer.

Eventually, she dips her feet in this strange place called Beacon Hills, roaming but never free, and she hides, carried in the crackling of dried leaves on a clear day. She glimmers in the cold waters of the lake, rippling and reveling in the soft waves that break the stillness of the surface. She simmers in the tarmac, under the roaring traffic, and hums inside the pipelines of the buildings downtown, and creaks along the wooden staircases of old Victorian homes and rustles through the gardens of the neat little rows of suburban white picket fence houses.

She waits. She listens and she sees, and she bides her time. She lurks around the graveyard, and she runs with the winds around the ruins of the Hale house after the fire dies down, howling mischievously to lure the wolves that used to run in the woods. She wails with the sirens on patrol cars, and she slithers under the hospital doors, hovering over the skin and bones of a battered, sleeping dog.

It must have been years, spent rotting away in the depths of her isolation, when the forest starts convulsing around her. There is a rogue wolf circling her territory. There is another, and then another, and another one. It doesn't stop. The hospital room is empty now and there's a corpse, but no other ghosts to keep her company among the trees. There is new blood and old blood, blood that awakens something primal in the woods, something hot white at the doors that separate this realm from others, something that pushes her and whispers in her ear that her time has come.

So she wakes. She wakes and she lies underwater, in the creek, carried away by the first rains of the season, biding her time, until the crisp autumn leaves start crunching under the trodden sneakers of the young and unaware. The wind is picking up and the sky is slowly bruising away into a clear sunset, and there are wolves but it's not quite right.

No, it's not right. It's not the wolves that have her squirming in the confines of her shapeless lifeform. It's not the wolves. So then it must be the boy. The boy. The boy, who steps on a pile of browning foliage and mud and falls flat on the loose soil around him, near the edge of the cold stream, hands scrabbling around clumsily.

A rock slides and drops into the water. The lazily swirling currents set in motion a tiny ripple that reaches beyond the blurry confines of the riverbed, lapping at the muddy bank and splashing away mischievously. The water takes hold, soaking through the thin, well worn material of his jacket. The wolves have dismissed him, but she hasn't.

She knows, it is him. A life, for a life, for a life. The boy, the wolf, the witch.

There is a creature, for lack of a better word, a presence that might be a fae, a ghoul, a spirit, a shadow that creeps and preys on the tiniest wisp of hope and sanity she can find.

There is a witch in the woods.

She learns, she plots, she waits. She finds the perfect vessel.

And then, she shows her hand.

[definitively-different-drivel]

Yep.

I accidentally a whole ficlet. Just under 1k of Derek being grumpy but begrudgingly letting Stiles drag him in to the whole bonfire with his pack thing. Also involves thoughts of family/good memories on Derek's part. Ends with Stiles conking out against him with everyone else gone for the evening.

I'll probably edit it and post it today or tomorrow. Here's a taste of my first draft:

Derek peered out at his pack as they spread out around the bonfire. Erica and Boyd ground against each other to the beat of some godawful techno band. Lydia twirled in flats as Jackson's eyes tracked the way the light reflected off her hair. Allison's back was to him, but Scott's goofy love-addled grin flickered in the evening air as she laughed, curling in on herself in delight.  He ignored the distracting movement of Stiles as he danced beside Issac's begrudging form. The acrid notes of chemicals embedded within treated wood evoked, in his mind, the scent of burning flesh, but none of that flickered across the clearing. Instead, the smell of clean, clear, deadfall woodsmoke flowed through the clearing. Derek's mind drifted back, pulled by the plumes dancing along the soot-sodden breeze. He stood there, leaning against a tree as the faintest edge of firelight cast bush-shadows across his dark blue jeans. Moonlight played upon his mother's graying hair as she smiled. Laura's boombox crackled out Beach Boys from an old cassette Cora scrounged from some cursed corner of their home. His aunt whispered something beneath the crackle of the flames. Peter laughed, languid and loose as his disgusting rowan whiskey reflected the warm light of the fire. His father twirled Talia in circles on the hard-packed ground, heedless of Laura and Cora's music-based bickering in the background. The air was warm, the moon hung, huge and heavy and inviting in the sky as Derek stood apart, watching his family frolic in the evening air. A hand on his wrist wrought his thoughts away from the scene...

[renmackree]

Trick or treat!!!

Hello lovely,

I'm only working on the one wip, so I'll give just a LITTLE more from a different part

“Oh, haha, very funny. Even in your old age, you’re still a Sourwolf.” Stiles was now flipping through the album artwork on his playlist, trying to figure out the first song to play while ignoring his family’s protests. 

“Sourwolf is new,” Eli pointed out, “I don’t think you’ve called him that before.”

“He has. Almost 25 years ago, in the parking lot of Beacon Hills High School. You just weren’t around yet.” Derek turned down the road, barely paying attention to the conversation and instead focusing on the drive. “Seems he’s run out of names to call me.”

“I didn’t know you guys went to high school together,” Eli pointed out. He tried to calculate how long ago it would have been and realized they were talking about 2011. Almost seven years before he was even conceived. Or adopted. Or born. Honestly, he didn’t know how he came to be. Whenever he asked his parents, they just said they found him in a tree or magic – which Eli only half believed.

Stiles snorted, bringing Eli’s attention back to the conversation at hand. “We didn’t. We were trying to find the rogue Alpha, and I had the most amazing idea of using the school broadcasting system to lure him. Your Dad wasn’t impressed.”

“I got stabbed, Stiles,” Derek warned. 

“Stabbed? By who?” Eli asked and leaned forward in the seat with a grin. For once, this might not be a boring car ride after all. He was told bits and pieces about their time in Beacon Hills through the years – Derek getting shot and Stiles almost cutting his arm off, Scott being bit by a rogue Alpha, something about sacrifices and de-aging – But nothing more than the basics or stories others told. His parents had always been tight-lipped regarding certain events from their past and even about things that happened when Eli was younger. He knew it was their way of protecting him, but it got old fast. 

“No one.”

“Your great Uncle Peter.” 

[monsterrae1]

WIP 🚧 Wednesday

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

Also tagged by @alyxmastershipper 🖤

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lazinesswrites]

WIP Wednesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

[hedwig221b]

Got tagged by wonderful people @patolemus, @demonicfaerie and @teencopandthesourwolf to share a wip, so here is a piece of my sterek twilight au (I'm going insane)

Stiles opened the door and was about to step out, when Derek called him.

“Stiles?”

He turned his head back, only to realize that Derek was very very close.

Stiles’ breath caught, his heart frozen in the sugar coating of trembling anticipation.

The sharp point of Derek’s nose touched his cheek, lighter than the wind. He inhaled deeply, taking the greedy lungfuls of Stiles’ scent into his body. Stiles fought the shiver at the thought of it seeping into Derek’s lungs, traveling with his blood, making Derek think of him, staying with him even when they were apart. It was a feral thought, new but so strong and lustful that it made his head spin from how pleasant it was.

Derek’s eyes fluttered open. His pupils were huge, with the thinnest thread of red wrapped gently around them.

“Sleep well.” His voice was a murmuring thunder.

Stiles swallowed against a dry throat, nodded, and got out of the car.

He walked in a daze to his house, his heart left in that damn Camaro. He stuttered through a weak explanation about his bruise to his Dad (he had to tell Lydia and Allison that he defended them from bad guys just so they knew), and stumbled upstairs.

The room was dark as he walked in. The soft light of the full moon lit the square on the carpet just below the window.

Stiles took a couple of minutes to glance over his makeshift board. With his lips set and his heart thundering in his ears, he tore it all away, leaving scraps of tape stuck to the wall. He then took a fresh sheet of paper, glued it to the wall, and wrote one word in bold black letters.

Werewolf

Stiles stared at it. The word glared back at him, standing out harshly against the white.

He capped the marker, tossed it onto the table, and took off his clothes. Thoughts swarmed his head the entire time, all at once, different and scary. The life and the death, the moon and the ocean, the secrets and their reveal. The thread of red wrapped lovingly around the black depths.

Derek.

Stiles thought about him the most. Something told him that it wouldn't be the last time, far from it. He thought about Derek's softness and his open desire to kill. Stiles’ hands remembered the heat of his hands. His neck longed to feel the coating warmth of Derek’s breath. His lips burned from the kiss that never happened.

Everything was so fucking complicated.

Except one thing.

It was the only clear thought in his head. The one that made his stomach clench from fear, his heart stutter from hope, and his lips stretch in a smile.

He was unconditionally and irrevocably in love with Derek.

[divider link]

[teencopandthesourwolf]

FUCK IT FRIDAY

i was tagged by the lovely @demonicfaerie (thanks, fae!) to share a current WIP. so, here's some of a mild blood kink slash beta shift derek slash frotting in the forest PWP kind of fic, which has the terribly imaginative working title of 'BLOODY MONSTER FUCKER STILES FULL MOON FIC' lmao.

this excerpt is SFW.

.

It's a balmy Tuesday evening in April when Derek realises he wants to taste Stiles's blood.

The notion comes to him, not as some strange intrusive thought or a guilty dream or an Anne Rice-induced moment of madness, but at the first scent and sight of it trickling down pale wrist bone and two large knuckles to then drip from the tips of the boy's spider leg fingers.

Having neutralised the threat of what they thought might be a Vigilantes Oscuros, but actually turned out to be a rogue Nagual, and once Derek satisfies himself by checking over and scenting the rest of the pack who are thankfully all mostly unscathed, he stalks over to where Stiles is standing, his chest heaving with the aftermath of their victory.

“Hey, big guy, d'you wanna—”

He trails off when Derek takes the bleeding arm in both of his hands, and after lifting Stiles's shirt sleeve and sighing with relief at the injury being merely a flesh wound, begins to syphon off most of Stiles's pain—to which Stiles answers by sighing his own breath of relief.

Derek hesitates for one thrilling moment before he's opening his mouth to close it again as he clamps it gently around the sticky mess of Stiles's skin, Alpha-gaze never leaving big brown Bambi eyes that are shining with the godly reflection of the full moon.

As he does it, Stiles's own mouth forms an ‘O’ shape, and surprisingly, the only thing he has to offer Derek is an uncharacteristically quiet and breathy “Oh,” which Derek boldly takes as permission to start sucking at Stiles's skin, delighting at the gooey texture and unique flavour of the blood that overwhelms his tongue and taste buds and feelings.

It's all at once that he hears Isaac’s wolf-whistle, and Scott's, “Ew!” and Allison's, “Um?” and Lydia's, “Told you,” to Jackson who just scoffs, and Derek doesn't need to be looking at Boyd to know that Boyd is looking at Erica to try and convince her not to smugly say, “You owe me twenty dollars, babe,” which she obviously says anyway.

Derek growls, then, loud enough to feel Stiles's trembling in his teeth, and for the rest of the gossipy pack to shuffle off through the trees before Derek can threaten to make them shuffle off this mortal coil if they don't.

Stiles's ever-sharp eyes—which had been darting about faster than the dragonflies down by the lake, gaze landing on one figure and then the next as Derek's irritating pack let their irritating thoughts on the situation be known—now gradually find their way back to Derek's.

Derek is watching Stiles carefully. He's transfixed, actually, has been for the entirety of the ongoing exchange, and he honestly doesn't believe he could look away if he tried.

Bronze eyes blown wide, Stiles now licks at unbearably pink lips, slowly, his cheeks doing their best to match the hue.

Taking the action for what he hopes it is, Derek starts to suck at the boy's skin some more, sampling his prize, before he's having to pause to swallow the pool of tangy red that's gathered underneath his tongue.

Then he knows, deliciously, that Stiles's treacly blood tastes like sodium and iron, but also like fresh earth and dew drops and mine.

When the kid's heart picks up the pace to a speed even more Springbok than usual, Derek releases the vacuum of his claret-tinged lips with a resonating pop. The sound echoes defiantly around the small glade in the northern part of the preserve they're standing in, and Derek's wolf preens.

The moon is singing to him as he waits, preparing himself to be challenged on what the human probably thinks of as shockingly beastly behaviour.

Only Stiles doesn't challenge it. He doesn't say anything at all, actually, opting instead to brutally gnaw on that unbearably plump bottom lip of his, shiny eyes misting over as his chemo-signals spike and morph into something smoky-sweet that reminds Derek of incense, and trailing mandevilla, and sex.

His vision shudders for a beat as his synapses start firing ten to the dozen, causing his eyes to flash impossibly redder than red, the glare from them illuminating Stiles's features in the gloom.

It looks, and feels, like magick.

With his mouth watering and gums tingling, Derek perceives Stiles's inaction to mean that he is maybe allowed to do the thing he really fucking wants to, so decides to try his luck at tentatively cleaning up the scarlet streaks staining Stiles's milky skin.

Derek starts to lick.

When the boy's mouth falls open for a breathy sound to punch its way out of what Derek is suddenly considering an incredibly biteable throat, he starts lapping away in earnest at the trails of spilt blood in long and deliberate strokes, flattened tongue running up and down, up and down, to wash clean lean muscle and dark hair and those pretty peppered moles, warming the cold pebbles of Stiles's gooseflesh as he goes.

Stiles keeps swallowing the saliva that Derek can hear is flooding his mouth, his breath hitching and hiccuping, and Derek's mouth doesn't form an ‘O’, but his mind does flicker into action with do many alluring, morish images as his wolf tries to will him to flop bonelessly into the scrub and roll around in the dirt and howl, howl, howl, all wild and feral and fierce. It's urging him for more; pleading with him to try; begging him to cry out with his wants and desires and to lead Stiles into the deep, dark indigo of the creeping night where Derek is most at home.

And he's really not sure why, but for once in his woefully shitty life Derek just allows himself to think fuck it and does exactly that, and when he howls he breaks the bones of dusk as he selfishly and gleefully drags the sheriff's son down onto the damp, ash-laden ground of his dead family's land.

Stiles, for all of his usual brashness and caustic pride, lets him.

.

(tags beneath the cut, play or nay. anybody else who wants to do the thing, pls just consider yourself tagged and have at it!)

@shealynn88 @novemberhush @greyhavenisback @raisesomehale @princecharmingwinks @ohhalefire @blue-eyedbeta @angela-feelstoomuch @evanesdust @jmeelee @thebigoblin @hedwig221b @isthatbloodonhisshirt

[honestlydarkprincess]

I can’t find the emoji ask game but insert here whatever emoji you want to work on whatever wip you desire but I want sentences 🔪🔪🔪 love u

💔 - stiles didn't know they were dating

“What?” Derek finally choked out. “But you— you’re dating that other guy.” His eyes flashed as he said it and Stiles could almost feel the hurt radiating off the love of his goddamn life. Hurt that he put there.

“No,” Stiles said earnestly. “Well, I am, but not anymore. Fuck, I’m fucking this up. I thought you weren’t into me like that. I thought you just wanted to be friends so I went out on a couple of dates with that guy to get my mind off you,” Stiles explained, feeling shaky as he did so. He couldn’t mess this up, this was his one second chance. “I didn’t know— I would never have gone out with him if I thought you liked me like that, Derek.”

Derek stared at him, digesting all of the information Stiles had just thrown at him. Slowly, he said, “So…you’re saying you want to date, right?”

make me write!

[dontcallpanic]

WIP Whenever

I was tagged by a few people at this point - I'm so sorry I lost track of it all... I know @patolemus and @gege-wondering-around tagged me and I think @seaweed-water did too, once upon a time. Thank you so, so much - I am sorry literal seasons have changed while you've been waiting!

So... here y'are - Even this tiny snippet has taken so feckin long to write it's unreal!! Why is Derek's voice so hard to nail down!? I've written about 5 different drafts at this point! Dammit Sourwolf!

Anyway, This is the start to Manifesting Murder, wildly edited and then unedited, then edited again. All mistakes belong to me and my dyslexia - Mwynhau!

Stiles' fingers shake as he methodically wipes the blood off them, one by one. There's a detached calmness that's settled over him – he's in shock – and he knows what he needs to do next but he can't get his damn fingers to stop shaking. He almost drops his phone when he digs it out of his pocket. He's never been more grateful for speed dial, he thinks before holding the phone to his ear. It sounds far too loud in the oppressive silence. One. Two. Three. “Stiles?” He lets out a breath. Everything's going to be okay. "Yeah sorry to call you on your day off but I could use your help with something. Do you think you can get here anytime soon?" There's a long silence on the end of the line. "I'll be there in ten."

_______

Derek stares down at the motionless body at the foot of the stairs, a long list of expletives running through his head. One glance is all he needs to ascertain that the man is dead. Very dead. The head is cracked at an alarming angle and there’s a steadily growing pool of blood creeping across the uneven floorboards. It's an awful lot of blood for a broken neck but there are some things in the world that can walk away that. He should know, he's one of them. But this man… this man smells distinctly fucking human. Derek lifts his eyes back to Stiles who has been fidgeting restlessly the whole time, and rises one silent eyebrow. Stiles nods jerkily, grimacing as he twists a bloody cloth through his long, clever fingers. “Yeahhh… So. I – I er… need your help,” he says somewhat redundantly, gesturing towards the body. Derek's other eyebrow joins his first. Stiles waves him off, almost flinging the damn cloth with the movement. He fumbles at the last moment, hands flying out to catch hold of it before squeezes it tight between his fists. “Heh. Yeah. I know – understatement!” he laughs flatly before glancing up, eyes wild and slightly glassy. “Can you, er… help me get rid of him?” Stiles makes a shooing gesture, inadvertently wafting the scent of fear and death directly at Derek. He raises his eyebrows further and resists the urge to sneeze. He's actually somewhat relieved. He shouldn't be, he knows that. He should be calling it in. Giving forensics the heads up and letting the detectives do the rest. He should be taking pictures for evidence. He should be fucking arresting Stiles on suspicion of murder. Fuck his fucking life. Instead of doing any of this, he looks away first, using the moment to reflect on how perpetually screwed he is. He scans the body with a trained detachedness, eyebrows drawing into a frown as he takes in the height of the sweeping wooden staircase, the blood splattered on the nosing, the way it’s smeared across the treads. “He's definitely dead then,” Derek says, automatic and unguarded sarcasm falling flat even to his own ears as he leans back on old habits during these trying times. Stiles, unfortunately, thinks he is serious. “Are your eyes broken?” he yelps incredulously, flailing towards the body and sending another cocktail of scents directly up Derek’s nose. “Do you see the angle of his head?” Stiles makes an abortive motion before he shakes his head and strides up to Derek's side and gestures emphatically at the corpse. “Yes he's fucking dead! - Do you want to check for a pulse? Or do you think I need to call for a second opinion from Beacon Hills finest?” “Do you want my help or not?” Derek growls back, turning to meet Stiles' challenge as he slips into Derek's personal space. Derek bares his teeth, standing his ground and refusing to give way as he slowly folds his arms across his chest. Relief sparks in Stiles' amber eyes and Derek watches Stiles fight back a grin, tongue darting out to tease his bottom lip and he can't look away. “So you'll do it? You'll help me?” Of course Derek's going to fucking help him – is if that was ever in question. Derek is a sucker for anything that Stiles would ask of him and he fucking knows it. His features remain blank and impassive as he holds Stiles' gaze for a beat longer than is necessary, as if considering his options before he turns away and sighs loudly though his nose. “You got a plastic sheet or something?” he asks, teeth itching as the scent of blood and Stiles twists around him. He definitely shouldn’t like it as much as he does. Stiles lets out an intense sigh of relief that sounds a lot like a groan and Derek has to close his eyes for a beat. Fuck his fucking life.

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Okay... no pressure WHATSOEVER tags to the usual suspects @hellameyers @jadezdominion @gege-wondering-around @patolemus @seaweed-water

And the new suspects @teencopandthesourwolf @violetfairydust

And @oldefashioned and @cantchangemypast in case you wanted to read.

[salty-fryingpan]

Celebrity Derek Hale being incredibly private and having absolutely no internet presence of his own just casually goes "Oh yeah my Fiancé-" on a talk show and the world fucking explodes looking for this super secret relationship with any famous woman he's ever interacted with and then they never figure it out cuz it's just some dude

[thevampiremasquerade]

so I’m working on a fic where Derek fakes his own death, Stiles is devastated and so SO heartbroken but boy do things get interesting once the truth comes out. Stiles is mad, things are being said, feelings being revealed, basically things get worse before they get better 👀 anyone interested in reading?

[voidboymads]

Back on my Stiles bullshit