#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]

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. it 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 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. He lifts 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 seemingly sighing his own breath of relief.

Derek hesitates for one thrilling moment—before he's opening his mouth, only to close it again when 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. Surprisingly, the only other 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,” that she aims at 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 that buzz down by the lake, his gaze landing on one figure and then the next as Derek's irritating pack let their irritating thoughts on the situation be irritatingly 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. 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 prances and preens.

The moon is singing to him as he waits impatiently, preparing 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, weirdly, 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.

Derek's 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 he's maybe allowed to do the thing he really fucking wants to. So, he decides to try his luck.

Derek starts to lick, cleaning up the scarlet streaks staining Stiles's milky skin.

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, washing 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.

Derek's mouth doesn't form an ‘O’ but his mind does flicker into action with alluring and 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 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 do exactly that.

So he howls and 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.

And 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]

Last Line Tag!

tagged by @seaweed-water thank you!!

Derek watched as Stiles meticulously washed the blood off of him and he felt his heart race at the care in each swipe of the towel. He wasn’t used to this. When was the last time he’d had someone tenderly care for his injuries? Probably when his pack was still alive.

tagging: @bigfootsmom, @exhuastedpigeon, @haeva, @father-salmon, @underwaterninja13

@laurenttheninth, @holdmygum, @beyourownanchor6, @insecuregodcomplex, @anti-homophobia-cheese

@thiamsxbitch, @ksbbb, @hemlocksandfoxgloves

[my85volvo]

Work in Progress!

(15,899 words, 95% complete, anyone want to beta read?)

The first time Stiles felt Derek's hand around his throat, he panicked. Not the kind of panic that would normally come when you suddenly can't breathe, or see razor-sharp teeth and glowing red eyes inches from your face, or feel pinpricks of clawed hands piercing your throat. It wasn't the kind of panic where he feared for his life. Stiles knew that Derek would never actually rip his throat out. It was weird to be pinned to the wall by an angry werewolf and feel safe despite the overwhelming evidence that he was one snarky comment away from a bloody death. But Stiles knew. He just knew that Derek wouldn't hurt him.

The real reason Stiles panicked had nothing to do with threats of death and everything to do with his very unexpected physical reaction. He panicked because every inch of skin the wolf touched felt like lightning shooting through his blood and pumping straight into his groin. He panicked because he had never gotten so hard so fast in his life, and if he didn't do something about the situation in his pants, then Derek would definitely notice. But most of all, Stiles panicked because he had never even considered the possibility of being attracted to another man, yet there he was, instantly in lust with a mysterious, broody werewolf. He didn't have much time to dwell on it, as the existence of supernatural beings was far more interesting and important. Stiles chalked up the experience to Derek just being supernaturally hot and that popping a boner was a completely normal reaction for a growing boy such as himself.

The second time Stiles felt Derek's hand around his throat, he reacted in a very similar fashion. Again, Stiles dismissed it as some sort of magic power that supernatural creatures possessed in order to help them pacify prey or something.

The third and fourth time it happened made Stiles start to think a bit harder about what the hell was going on with him. The fifth time it happened, he knew that werewolves could definitely smell arousal, and he wondered how the hell Derek just acted so normal about it. After the twenty-seventh time in 4 years, Stiles stopped questioning why he was looking forward to pissing off Derek, and he began questioning why Derek kept grabbing him, knowing it was a turn-on. He didn't grab anyone else by the throat for fun. Stiles felt a little special.

Inquisitive by nature, often to his own detriment, he decided he needed to know a bit more about wolves and scents and…other sensitive topics related to that. Derek tended to sneak in through the window at least twice a week, which was kinda weird already, so Stiles just had to wait until they were alone to ask some questions. That, and actually have the guts to do it.

[jade-bright]

These will probably be hella rare, but I wanna do it anyway

WIP of what I have named, "Conversations: with the Argents," and part of a series that I think will just contain all the "what if's" of the same age sterek au that's been brewing in my head

Sitting up from his relaxed position, Stiles replies, "I will take your request to my Alpha, and you may come by the Sheriff's station tomorrow around noon in order to get your answer." Chris nods, "Thank you." Then he stands and goes to collect his drinks before Lucia calls out that his order is ready. After handing over the tray with the two drinks to the hunter, she lets Stiles know it's gonna be another minute until his order's done. Stiles gives his thanks and pulls out his phone again to read any messages sent. Dad: If there's no update in 30 minutes, I'm sending an officer Derek: 15 and I'm going

[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.

[gege-wondering-around]

WIP whenever!

i was tagged by my lovely @dontcallpanic and i'm happy to have something to share, given how hard it has been for me to write lately. this comes for the second prompt i got send in, lemme know what you think!

“Dad…” Softly pleaded the boy, quietly letting a tear dilute into the crimson lake trapping him there, trying to forget the man’s lifeless, although he had to put in little effort; consequently, the features shifted as he kept hold of it. The head became Lydia, copper hair and opaque eyes just like his father; Stiles brought her head closer, finding out the spine was still attached and slithering out the cemetery he was still praying on, and shielded her forehead with his chin. The same would do a wolf covering its mate’s neck from attacks, but the boy’s wished lover was already dead. “Stop this!” Stiles shouted to no one, words falling on the blood’s surface, head turning around to see someone to curse at for the pain caused to all those he loved, but found no target; therefore, as the rage got tamed by the suffocating vastness around him, Lydia’s head got hold within the boy’s chest, wishing a beating heart would made her eyelash bat. However, his back began to ache, his own spine felt being pulled out the flesh by a truck, with a robe attached to both ends of the pulling contest; it made him fall back on hands and knees, the chopped off head rolling a few feet away as he whined at the pain. When eyes were able to catch sight of the head once more, it had changed anew. It seemed to look like Derek… The boy was used to his father and Lydia, aware that once awakened they would both be fine, but the wolf was a new entry to the painful circus of the evil fox. Stiles tried to pull, dismissing his detaching spine coming out the flesh, in a desperate attempt to reach the man’s head; a hand extended in the same deed, although it made his whole body fall down on the valley of bones he was then on top. He hadn't noticed the change. Eyelashes fluttered open trying to regain some vision only to see the worst of his nightmares. The Noigstune was back, with its foot on the wolf’s head, whose eyes were of a dying red Stiles couldn’t stand looking at; his hand tried to reach for him once more, but in vain, fingers scratching the air in a faint attempt of reaching the man. He could never reach him. Nevertheless a strangled sound left thin lips, stained by the bloody femoris his mouth was near to, blocking the word from reaching the wolf’s deaf ears. “Not him…” Dragging his body and leaving his spine behind, the boy crawled a path to reach Derek’s head, with his own spine functioning in nervous movements behind the Nogistune’s foot; the wolf’s fighting manner was everlasting even in the other’s mind. In spite of which the evilness took its own liking of the show, forging a promise to a boy who wanted nothing more than to cradle another head near his aching, torn apart heart. “Maybe I’ll make this one real…” The spirit never ceased to slither further down his core, finding more of his beloved people and promising for each the same daming end; Stiles stopped believing the threat after the second aim being twice at Malia, who was still very well alive, but with the alpha was different.  He couldn’t believe the sinister way the evil creature was smiling down at the head crashed down as if it had won a war before its start… “Please!” The darkness of the room in which he woke up didn’t help.

thanks for the tag @dontcallpanic, and i'm gonna tag you back if you want to share something more as well and im gonna tag with no pressure @patolemus @seaweed-water @demonicfaerie @jadezdominion @hellameyers

@hedwig221b @oldefashioned and just to share a bit of my writing with you im also tagging @sterekloverforever

[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.” 

[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]

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

[my85volvo]

Work in Progress!

(68,068 words, 60% complete? spark!Stiles)

Just 6 more hours until San Francisco, Derek reminded himself.

Derek Hale was among the first to board his flight, after military personnel and families with children, and only started to relax once he was settled in his window seat with his eyes closed and head tilted back. He listened to the people trickling into the plane with impatient steps and rolling luggage, while the flight crew repeated the same greetings over and over again. Even among the muddled scents surrounding him, he smelled one of the crew approach his seat.

“Would you like a drink before takeoff, Mr…Luna?”

Derek opened his eyes to see the crew member checking his list of first-class passengers, a business smile plastered on his face. For a moment, he had forgotten the name etched into his counterfeit ID, one Dennis Luna, but recovered from his hesitancy quickly enough to order a drink without noticeable delay.

“Beer,” Derek grunted.

The attendant nodded and moved along to the next passenger, taking drink orders while darting in and out of the aisle traffic. Derek pulled a small vial of wolfs-bane disguised as an aftershave travel bottle from the briefcase at his feet, ready to spare a few drops for his beer. He knew it would help his disgruntled state immensely, granting a light buzz and dulling his senses to a more comfortable level.

As he sat back again to close his eyes and await his drink, a voice rang out right next to his ear and caused his whole body to jump in surprise.

“Pegged you for a druid earlier, but seeing your cute little bottle of party poison makes me think you're a shifter, right? Your aura is all over the place, so I can't really tell.”

A man in a red hoodie was sitting right next to him, leaning into his personal space, seemingly having appeared out of thin air. The urge to shift into his wolf form at the shock was strong, but Derek held his control save for the briefest flash of bright blue that took over his eyes in anger.

“Let me guess, panther? Bear? Wolf?” The man continued with an excited grin. “Your aura was green earlier, but now it looks more like an electric blue, which is usually for more hybrid types, like Kanima or something. But I just get this different vibe from you. Something big and furry, right? Probably not a werepanther; cats absolutely hate flying. I knew this housecat once, loved sunbathing on the roof, but she refused to fly on my broomstick from 2 feet off the ground. Turned her nose up at bacon, too. What kind of carnivore doesn't love bacon? Caught her nibbling on a cucumber once, though. Weird, right?”

Derek stared at him in disbelief, barely registering the words coming out of his mouth, confusion written all over his face.

“...What?”

Red hoodie man laughed loudly, tilting his head back with genuine mirth. His brilliant smile caught Derek off guard yet again. Looking at his face, he appeared to be in his early twenties, with bright amber eyes and tiny black moles dotting his skin. Derek had to give himself a little shake to snap back to reality and assess the threat in front of him. No sound, no scent, beautiful face, and definitely a magic user. One that was likely trying to charm him or…something. Derek had never seen this kind of magic used before, just the occasional pack emissary druid and a witch or two that couldn't do much more than sprout flowers from some dirt or make sparkly jazz hands. He decided that this red hoodie man must be dangerous, and the ease at which he seemed to hypnotize him was terrifying. He was a menace at best and downright malicious at worst.

“Hehehe, just kidding, dude. I don't actually need a broomstick to fl–”

Derek grabbed the man by the scruff of his collar, bringing their faces close and angling himself away from the eyes of the other boarding passengers.

“Who the fuck are you, why do you have no smell, and what the fuck do you want from me?” he growled.

The red hoodie man lifted his hands in surrender, a look of surprise and horror etched on his face.

“Woah, woah big guy, not a threat, just a human. Human Stiles. That's my name. Here, smell me all you want.”

With a nonchalant wave of his hand, the man's eyes clouded white with a brief flash of pastel purple. Derek was again hit with a shock to his senses. This time, a scent like no other slammed into his nostrils. Wet earth after a heavy rain. Sweet cherries dangling from a late spring tree. A warm huff of breath from a newborn puppy. With an involuntary gasp, his head was suddenly filled with what was quite possibly the most intoxicating smell he had ever encountered. He was dizzy, eyelids heavy, and…

Oh shit, I'm hard.

...

[prettyboybuckley]

I was gonna ask abou t the high on you sequel my beloved, but then I saw that you have two Sterek wips I didn't know about?! Bestie tell me anything about either of them pls

hey bestie 💞

i do! they're both a little older but i swear i'm going to finish them... Or at least the one about Derek being the only person/thing that can really calm Stiles' ADHD down and get him to sleep, be it through his voice or his scent or just his presence. The entire idea behind that is that they are mates (though in the very compatible sense, not the one and only true love sense) because I'm a sucker for that stuff 😇

here's a snippet:

He spends most of the first week of his winter break on Derek's couch. Derek seems to be okay with it, though mildly annoyed, but he hasn't thrown Stiles out yet. It's mostly because Scott is spending all his time working or with Malia, and the same goes for his dad who's either at the Sheriffs station or with Melissa, now that the two of them have finally taken that step. Lydia is still at MIT and will be until after Christmas, and he doesn't feel like hanging out with the puppy pack and having to deal with the tension - sexual or otherwise - between Theo and Liam. Ergo, Derek's couch. It only takes him two days before Derek gives him a key so he can let himself in, and he doesn't even have to ask for it. Derek's couch is surprisingly comfortable, good enough to spend most of his day on while he does homework or binges Netflix. Some of the time Derek is around, leaving either during the day for his shift or, after he's given Stiles the key, coming home far after Stiles has already nested himself onto the couch. "Here again?" Derek grumbles when he drags himself into the loft after a particularly long shift, and it barely sounds like a question, just a statement.  "Your couch is so much better than my dad's, dude!" Stiles grins, trying to look as innocent as possible, and all he gets in return is a quirked eyebrow from Derek. He lets himself fall back against the armrest with a roll of his eyes. Tough crowd, it seems.

✨ ask me about one of my too many wips ✨

[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.

_______________________

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.