#the nogitsune tw

[ohanahoku-ao3]

Whumptober Day 23

This may be my favorite prompt fill so far. Hope you all like it! This is a continuation of my new Teen Wolf series, Tethered by the Shadows, so check that out first if you haven't! <3

Teen & Up - Gen - Teen Wolf

Control

     It was the weekend, five days since the incident, and Stiles still hadn’t slept. He was running on fumes, on caffeine and energy drinks that could only help for so long. He knew that avoiding sleep wasn’t sustainable. He knew he had to face it eventually, and at the rate things were going, it would happen sooner rather than later. If he kept pushing himself, it would be out of his control, and Stiles didn’t want that to happen. He had to control the situation, and that meant he had to welcome sleep willingly, a terrifying concept but one he couldn’t avoid.

     Thankfully, Stiles had a foolproof plan.

     After a late dinner, the sheriff left for his night shift, and Stiles watched his father leave through the blinds in the living room. As soon as the car disappeared from view, he moved into action. Firstly, he went around the house, locking every door and window as a precaution. It was less to protect himself and more to ensure the safety of anyone who might come by. The window shades were pulled on every window, and Stiles even went so far as to connect the mountain ash he had lined the house with shortly after the Kanima incident. The black dust fell through his fingers with a quiet ‘shh,’ and Stiles held his breath as he completed the circuit, imagining the forcefield it would make around his house. He exhaled shakily when it was done, always a bit breathless after working with the ash.

     A water bottle was procured from the kitchen, and Stiles moved to his room, surveying it for a moment before setting the bottle on his desk. He moved to the bed, reaching under it and dragging a storage box out from underneath. Metal gleamed when he popped the lid off, and Stiles hesitated for a moment before reaching in and grabbing the heavy chains. He pulled them out and looked at his desk with a critical eye before painstakingly wrapping the chains around the heavy wooden furniture. He checked to ensure they were tightly fastened and sure not to slip and reached into the box again, producing a set of sturdy manacles. After Scott had broken the handcuffs that night, Stiles had prepared for the future. Of course, he never wanted to have to chain Scott up again. It was merely a precaution and one he hadn’t foreseen as a tool he’d use on himself. Funny how that worked out.

     The manacles were carefully threaded through the chain and set on the floor. Stiles’ gaze lingered on them for a while, rubbing his thumb over the teeth of the small key that unlocked them, pressing the sharp mountains into his skin. At length, he set the key down next to them and pulled himself away. His sleeping bag and pillow found their way to the floor next to the desk, and Stiles huffed a breath of mild amusement to himself as he set the water bottle down next to them. If he ignored the chains, it would almost be like he and Scott were camping inside the way they did as kids. Not that Scott was going to be joining him. His best friend knew nothing about this, and that’s how Stiles wanted it, at least for the time being. Scott wouldn’t understand the situation. He had complete faith in the Yukimura’s and would likely assume Stiles was just being paranoid. He'd protest Stiles putting the chains on, thinking that he was enough to keep Stiles safe from his nightmares. But in truth, it was more than probable that Scott would be the one who needed the protection the chains provided. Scott wouldn’t be helpful in this situation, and Stiles knew that. He was alone, and it was fine. He had it under control.

     With his plan nearly ready, Stiles headed to the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth. He stared listlessly at the floor while he brushed his teeth, eyes catching on a fragment of glass from the broken mirror. It sat in the corner, silently mocking him from the spot his father must’ve missed when the sheriff cleaned up Stiles’ mess. He left without picking it up, feet carrying him down the hall and into not his room but the glorified closet that had once been his mother’s sewing room. He walked in, ignoring the memories of his mother as he grabbed the huge, square mirror tucked away in the corner of the room. The mirror was soon propped up against Stiles’ bed, across from his sleeping bag, and Stiles stared down at the reflection of his feet for a moment before glancing towards the window nearest his bed. He grabbed the tilt rod, twisting it until the blinds separated just enough to let a little light in once he flipped the switch.

     A yawn overtook him as he stepped away from the window, and he took his time getting dressed, letting himself feel the onset of exhaustion in a way he hadn’t let himself dwell on in several days. The sleepless nights had taken a toll on him. He could feel it in the way his muscles ached, how his very bones felt weary and discouraged as they held him up. His eyes felt bloodshot hot, and one of his eyes had developed a subtle twitch sometime during the last forty-eight hours. His hands shook in a mixture of tiredness and anxiety, and his head felt too heavy to keep upright. All this to say that Stiles needed sleep desperately, and he was finally ready to surrender to that need.

     He surveyed the room one more time before flipping the switch. Light leaked through the slitted blinds, pale and weak from the streetlamps outside. Stiles’s heart sped up as he shuffled to his sleeping bag through the dark. He slipped his legs into the bedroll and found the key on the floor, heart racing as he held the tiny bit of metal in his hand. It would work. His plan was foolproof.

     With a short cry of determination, Stiles threw the key away from him, watching as it hit the wall beneath the window and fell into the dark below it. Immediately, he wanted to go after it, heart pounding in his ears as he held himself back. He was going to sleep. He was going to confront the thing inside him on his own terms, and the chains were necessary to ensure he couldn’t hurt himself. Or anyone else.

     The metal was cold as it closed around his wrists, and Stiles’ breath hitched as panic-fueled adrenaline flooded through him. Suddenly, he felt like he was back in Eichen House’s basement, trapped and hurt and terrified as the Nogitsune paced around in the dark. He wasn’t back there, though. He was home, in his room, and the chains on his wrists would keep him safe. He wasn’t trapped; he was protected in this way. He just had to ignore the panic, breathe through it, and calm himself down. Slowly, while taking practiced breaths, Stiles slid further into the sleeping bag, laying his head down on his pillow as he closed his eyes. He could do this. It was going to be fine. He was in control.

     Following that train of thought, Stiles turned his head, staring at himself in the mirror for the first time since the incident. His reflection stared back, a perfect imitation with no indication that it wasn’t him. Its hand moved when his did, and in the minimal lighting, he could see its mouth moved along with his. “This time, we’ll do this my way. I’m the one in control, not you.” He waited a moment for a response, and when none came, he looked away and closed his eyes. With a slow breath, Stiles let the exhaustion take over and tumbled headlong into slumber.

Tethered by the Shadows

     “Stiles.” A voice called to him. “Stiles, I know you can hear me. Wake up and face me.”

     Stiles’ eyes snapped open as he woke with a jolt, arms flailing through an aborted movement as the chains limited his mobility.

     “There he is. The man with a plan.” The voice mocked, and when Stiles looked over, his reflection stared back at him. The moon had come out, and its light streamed through the blinds, its pale blue shine casting a ladder of shadows onto the floor between them. It was brighter than the streetlamps, and as Stiles’ eyes adjusted, he could make out his rogue reflection in whole. “Didn’t think this through very well, did you, Stiles? After all, who’s going to unlock you come morning?”

     The shadow was staring down at him, sitting up with its hands listlessly laid in its lap while Stiles was still lying on his back. Looking up at it, Stiles couldn’t help but feel small under the thing’s gaze in the mirror. He scrambled to sit up, ignoring the look of amusement on the shadow’s face. “I don’t care.” He spat. “I’ll tell the others, and we’ll find some way to get rid of you. For good this time.” 

     A hum answered him, and the shadow reached up to itch its nose in an oddly normal gesture that made Stiles feel off-kilter. The reflection glanced at its fingers and made a flicking motion like he was brushing away dead skin from his fingers. “I don’t think you will.” It said, dark gaze finding Stiles once more. “I think you’re too scared to tell them about me.”

     “I’m not afraid.” Stiles retorted, clenching his hands into fists as he glared at the mirror.

     “It does you no service to lie to me, Stiles.” The thing answered with a smirk. “You’re terrified of what they may do to you. They may have to kill you for real, isn’t that right? Or worse? Perhaps they’ll put you back in Eichen for good this time.” It suggested, and Stiles couldn’t hide his flinch at the idea. A wicked smile gleamed in the mirror, and the shadow leaned forward as far as the manacles on his wrists would let him. “You think you’re crazy, don’t you, Stiles?”

     Stiles found himself leaning away from the reflection, pressing his shoulder into the desk behind him. His heart raced as he stared into those manic eyes, but he didn’t deny it. The shadow wasn’t just in the mirror but in his head, and Stiles’ lies wouldn’t fool either of them.

     The shadow tutted, leaning back and looking down at their- its wrists. “I suppose they’ll believe it too when they see you like this, hm?” The questioning hum sent chills down Stiles’ spine.

     “They won’t. They’ll believe me when I tell them about you.” Stiles said, his throat feeling too dry. He reached for the water bottle beside him, willing his heart to stop beating so fast as he took a drink. He was in control. The shadow couldn’t do anything like this. He set the water bottle back down and lifted his head to meet the reflection’s eyes. “I’ve trapped you. You can’t do anything while I’m tied up like this. You have no control.”

     “Don’t I?” The shadow asked, and a spark of mischief in its eyes had Stiles’ heart rate ratcheting back up. Its head tilted toward the window, and Stiles’ head whipped to the right when he heard the soft sound of something dragging across the carpet.

     Panic wrapped its hand around Stiles’ throat, and his eyes widened as he watched the key slide into the first stripe of light on the floor. Speechless, he watched as the blind’s shadow bent and enveloped the key, pushing it forward, each strip of darkness following suit as the key was slowly nudged across the room.

     “You forget I’m much more than a mere reflection, Stiles.” The Nogitsune said with a grin as the reflection grabbed the key once it got close enough.

     “No. No, stop!” Stiles finally managed to find his voice, letting go of the breath he’d been holding. His chest heaved with panic as his facade of control crumbled around him. The key was inserted into the manacles, and Stiles screamed in time with their click before everything went dark.

     When Stiles woke in the morning, he was tucked into his bed, and only the evidence of the night before was the chafing around his wrists.

[silentmacabre]

fifty shades of stiles’ emoting

[tcmmykinard]

Come on now, you can’t crumble that easily.

[batwynn]

He’s totally normal, I swear.

[maxanor]

I eat what you feel, and I’m insatiable. TEEN WOLF APPRECIATION WEEK | antagonist

[christinesficrecs]

do you have any recs for fics post 3B or post season 4? Thank you!! Love your blog 💜💞

I'm so glad you asked! 🩷 This is my "omg, this was so good" list. 😊

Written in the Scars by dr_girlfriend | 15.3K | Explicit

Stiles stared into eyes that were just a little lighter than even the day before, looking almost beta-gold in the harsh lighting. His nose was just a little less uptilted, the moles on his face not quite where they used to be. The scar on the bottom of his chin from when he fell off the swings in third grade was just gone. He seemed a little bit taller, his shoulders a little bit wider.

With trembling fingers Stiles folded his left ear forward, craning his neck. A wheezing breath escaped him, his legs suddenly feeling weak with relief.

The mark of the Oni was still there, the one that meant self.

Stiles was still himself. For now.

The Walls Are Breathing In by secondstar | 41.8K | Explicit

Nothing could go wrong. It was just supposed to be a safe trip to the Nemeton. But this is Beacon Hills and things are rarely that simple. Welcome to the life of Stiles Stilinski.

Or, that time that Stiles accidentally became a sorcerer against his will.

Someone Else’s Dream by theroguesgambit | 36.6K

Post-3B. Derek has gone missing, and Stiles’ dreams might be the only way to save him.

out of the nightmare, into your arms by  tryslora | 6.4K

Stiles wakes up in the bathtub. It’s the third time sleepwalking this week, and at least this time he’s in the house. Ever since the Nogitsune, he’s had nightmares and nothing, and no one seems to be able to stop them. Until Derek.

Full On Rainstorm by BarlowGirl | 10.5K | Explicit

He catches Derek by the arm and Derek lets himself be turned, surprised when Stiles shoves a small box into his hands. “I don’t know if you still celebrate it or what but… I wanted you to know someone was thinking about you. Happy birthday.”

Then he squeezes Derek’s arm and bolts, gone before Derek can think to stop him.

He opens the box standing there, only to find one singular, misshapen, sloppily-frosted, cupcake, with a candle in the box next to it. It’s kind of squished despite the paper towel all around it to keep it from banging around in the box.

If You’re Going Through Hell (Keep Going) | 48.5K

Stiles thought everything leading up to Allison’s death was hell, but he was wrong. Spending senior year dealing with the pack’s dismissal of him while secretly training to be Deaton’s replacement was hell. Feeling guilty and hating himself for what the Nogitsune did was hell. Being in love with someone who would never love him back was hell. Well, if you’re going through hell, keep going.

Not Quite Lost (Not Quite Found) by alocalband | 25K | Explicit

A year after the nogitsune is defeated, Derek is living a quiet life in the mountains above a small town in Colorado.

Then Stiles shows up.

The One You Choose by Asterekmess (Livinginfictions) | 13.4K | Mature

Stiles hadn’t seen Scott in over a week, except for glances he caught during school hours.

Saturday Night At The Movies by aussiebee | 7.3K | Explicit

After running into Stiles at the late night movies, Derek realises just how badly Stiles is handling the post-nogitsune fallout. He knows the feeling.

Sense of Home by siny | 53K | Explicit

Home can be a place, but it can also be a person.

After the events with the Nemeton, Stiles starts suffering the consequences of their sacrifice. A journey he attempts to make on his own, but only becomes worse with every step he takes. In the process he seeks comfort in an unexpected place and it draws him toward an unexpected person.

Illuminated by ZainClaw | 5K 

“Because I’m falling in love with you and it’s scaring the hell out of me.”

Start Small, Like Oak Trees by SmallBirds | 24.2K

The months following Allison’s death have passed Stiles by in a haze of monotony. He sleepwalks through days that seem to lose their color, an unwilling passenger in a body he no longer trusts. Eventually, he thinks, he’ll just fade away. He isn’t sure anyone would notice. Then, during a spur of the moment grocery run, he stumbles upon Derek Hale attempting to console a lost child, and for the first time in recent memory the world doesn’t seem so awful. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting when he eventually convinces Derek to move into the Stilinski’s spare bedroom, but a newfound passion for weeding and topsoil certainly isn’t it.

Nitesky by  thepsychicclam | 7K

Stiles has trouble dealing with the after effects of the nogitsune, and Derek finds him sitting on his roof.

Honey, Can’t you See (The Bloodstains on my Teeth) by  Loup_Aigre, TroubleIWant | 44.9K

“Mr Stilinski.” Deaton’s usually impassive face betrays a hint of surprise today, maybe even disappointment. “You haven’t changed your mind.”

Stiles tips his chin up, smiling against his irritation. “Nope,” he confirms, so cheerily it bites. They had arranged this weeks ago, yet Deaton was apparently betting Stiles wouldn’t go through with it in the end. Fuck that. He doesn’t know what it’s like out there, not really. He can afford to hold himself aloof and uninvolved, knowing his druid power is enough to keep him safe in this little office. Stiles can’t. Scott’s pack has got to protect this whole town, and Stiles’ spark isn’t enough to protect all of them while they do it.

^^^technically not post-3B but soooo good!

[jocollins]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Additional Tags: Bad Friend Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Good Nogitsune (Teen Wolf), Mental Health Issues, Mental Breakdown, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Love, Friendship/Love, getting better, Working Out Issues, Tyler's idea about Sterek scene, at the end, I Don't Even Know, don't know what to tag, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort Summary:

Sometimes you just love someone more than they will love you. But maybe, just maybe, you haven’t met the right person to love you. aka Stiles is never anyone’s first choice but Derek changes that.

[fionajames]

Lemme request something Void! related. Preferably Sterek. No x reader please. Even just Sterek friendship!

Devoid of All Emotion

A/N: OML TYSM FOR THIS REQUEST!!! I AM SO GRATEFUL, YOU HAVE NO IDEA. Now to explain, I would ship Sterek but the thing is, yk, the age gap, so unless it's an au or a few years into the future when it's more natural, I view Stiles and Derek as platonic soulmates. I really hope you enjoy and PLEASE, TEEN WOLF PEOPLE, SEND REQUESTS.

(divider by @saradika-graphics)

Three seconds breath in, three seconds hold, three seconds breath out. 

Three in, three hold, three out.

In, hold, out.

Three, three, three.

The rhythmic breathing was beginning to ache in his chest as the man exhaled steadily, attempting to steel himself as he stared at the orange hues of sunset. Inside the apartment, beyond the door, he could hear the Sheriff’s attempt at resurfacing whatever remained of his son.

In, hold, out.

Derek glanced to his side, where Allison was gnawing on the ends of her fingernails, glancing to her dad every few moments. He could smell the anxiety rolling off of her, grief twisting with it as she sighed loudly. Emotional pain drifted in the air, stronger and heavier than anything else.

“You’re not my son,” the words floated into Derek’s ears as the tiny flickering spark of hope in his stomach was quenched with the snapping sound of metal being broken. Stiles was gone. He blinked languidly, his own grief growing inside of him. 

Argent was the calmest one present, as predicted, and waves of chilling cool rolled off of him. It was relieving to Derek’s overwhelmed senses, and he focused on that instead of Allison’s frantic panic as they entered the loft.

He followed Argent with monotonous steps, watching out of the corner of his eye as Allison sucked in a breath, positioning herself diagonally from Stiles. 

No, a voice in his head rasped, and Derek scanned the boy’s face hopelessly. That’s not Stiles.

Abruptly the weight of the situation came crashing down on him. That wasn’t Stiles in front of him, that was the Nogitsune, controlling the boy he once knew. Stiles was smart and mischievous, witty and quick-thinking, but he had this bubbly energy that had originally annoyed Derek to all ends. 

But now, he would give anything for a cheerful humorous quip to come from Stiles’ lips, instead, the Nogitsune watched contently, as though everything he’d planned was slotting into place. It was using Stiles’ body like a puppet, and Derek could practically picture the red strings tied to the boy’s every limb, controlling his every move.

Allison attempted to tase the Nogitsune, but it raised its fists effortlessly and caught the electricity. Sure, Derek hadn’t thought the taser would affect the monster, but he hadn’t expected it to catch it. He pushed down the fear rising in his stomach, trying desperately to picture something other than Stiles in front of him.

And then the Nogitsune yanked the electricity, and Allison’s eyes grew wide with horror as the taser was ripped from her grip with careless ease, thrown to the side of the room. 

Rage washed over Derek as he stared at the monster in front of him, controlling Stiles’ body and taunting him without even realising. It was as though someone had taken a blade dripping with wolfsbane and plunged it through his heart, twisting constantly. 

He’d been too afraid to admit it, even to himself, but Derek was aware his anchor had changed. The moment he’d met Stiles’ teary eyed gaze in this very same place, nearly two months before, he’d known. It had taken him a mere matter of seconds to believe the words that came from Stiles’ mouth, and with that Scott’s. He’d nearly killed Jen– the Darach right then and there.

Stiles was a cheerful boy, even if he had darkness inside of him that he rarely talked about. Derek was aware of how soulmates worked, whether they were platonic or romantic, it took a werewolf - or were creature of some sort - to feel the bond. He hadn’t recognised it at first, but Stiles was in fact his other half, and even though there were no romantic connections tying them together, Derek loathed the idea of hurting him.

But this wasn’t Stiles, this was the Nogitsune.

Derek snarled and lunged forward, aiming to grab the back of the boy’s head, only for the Nogitsune to grab him by the arm and twist. A cry of pain escaped his lips as he heard and felt his arm break as his shirt was grabbed and his head was slammed into the table. In one swift motion he was thrown into the pillar, and he groaned when pain erupted from his ribs as his back hit the plaster and he fell to the floor.

Not Stiles, he told himself. Nogitsune.

A click ran through the room, and Derek lifted his head to stare at Argent through the haze of pain glazing over his eyes. The sound of safety being switched off on a gun. Said gun was pointed directly at Stiles’ head. It didn’t matter if it was the Nogitsune, because that was Stiles’ body it was controlling, and a bullet to the head would kill him.

“Argent, listen to me,” the Sheriff began, reaching out a hand as though to calm a frightened animal. “Don’t do this.” Derek rose to his feet, because even though he was sure he’d broken a few ribs and it hurt like hell - even though it would heal - he wasn’t going to just watch Argent shoot his anchor. 

Not just his anchor, his other half.

“Why not?” Argent mused calmly, but Derek could smell the tinge of guilt amongst the collected calm. “I’ve done it before; werewolves, berserkers, I can easily add a Nogitsune to the list.” The Sheriff responded immediately, raising his gun and clicking off the safety smoothly, pointing it at Argent’s head.

Derek saw Stiles’ mouth form an ‘o’, eyes widening and brows shooting up, as though he wasn’t surprised, just amused. It made him feel sick. 

Argent glanced at the Sheriff. “You’re not gonna shoot my son,” the man told him firmly, and the stench of fear spilling off of him was acidic to Derek’s senses.

“You said it yourself, Sheriff,” Argent told him, turning back to look at the Nogitsune. “That’s not your son.” The Nogitsune tilted Stiles’ head mockingly, taunting Argent silently, teasing him. Derek wanted to scream.

“Put it down,” the Sheriff firmly ordered, yet Argent didn’t flinch. “Put it down.”

“Dad, he’s gonna shoot me,” the Nogitsune whispered, fear seeping through its words. But the fear was fake, an attempt to guilt trip the Sheriff into listening. Derek reminded himself yet again; this was the Nogitsune, not Stiles. Not his Stiles. “He’s gonna kill me, Dad.”

“Put the gun down,” the Sheriff repeated, glancing at the body of his son again. 

“Don’t listen,” Argent told him.

“Put it down!” The Sheriff’s voice grew louder and stronger. “Now! Do it! Put it down!”

The Nogitsune turned Stiles’ head, staring Argent in the eyes. And yet, as it spoke, something inside of Derek tinged, and he knew that the words were Stiles’, not the spirit’s. “Pull the trigger, come on.” The Nogitsune was playing it off as a taunt, but Derek could feel the heavy presence of Stiles in the words, begging Argent to kill him so the spirit would leave.

Horror was swimming in Derek’s stomach, getting harder and harder to push down. He wanted to grab Stiles and drag him away, but this wasn’t Stiles. Yet, it had Stiles’ body, and if any harm came to the boy’s body, it wasn’t just affecting the Nogitsune. It was doing well, and he knew that, it was pulling on everyone’s heartstrings and taunting them into doing exactly what it wanted.

Derek hated it.

“Listen to me, you put the gun down now!” The Sheriff shouted, and Derek watched the horror melt Argent’s features, as though he realised exactly what was happening.

“Dad!” Allison pleaded, and Derek wanted to join her in begging them to stop, but he couldn’t drag his eyes from Stiles’ face. Devoid of all emotion, completely void. 

“Shoot me!” Stiles screamed, and yet again, it was Stiles. The Nogitsune couldn’t completely control the boy, but it was manipulating his body language and tone, but the words themselves were all Stiles. Derek despised it. This was Stiles, his anchor, his other half, begging for Argent to put a bullet through his head to save his friends, to save everyone. Stiles begging for his own death. It filled Derek with a new kind of emotion, one he couldn’t quite decipher, but it was strong.

“Put the gun down!”

“Shoot me!”

“Argent, you put it down!”

“Strife,” came Allison’s whisper, and Derek’s gaze broke from Stiles’ face, realisation hitting him. The colours of sunset were fading to darkness, and his heart ached. The Onii were on their way, on their way to kill the Nogitsune, and in the process, Stiles. His Stiles.

“Put it down! Put it down!”

“Stop!” Allison screeched. “Stop it! This is what he wants! This is exactly what he wants!”

“Not exactly,” the Nogitsune intervened, and a rush of sharp coldness like an icy river shot through Derek’s soul, engulfing him in frigid iciness. “I was kinda hoping Scott would be here. But I’m glad you all have your guns out, because you aren’t here to kill me. You’re here to protect me.”

The Nogitsune turned and stepped backwards, between the Sheriff and Argent as four dark figures materialised out of nowhere. The Onii slashed the swords ominously, and Derek hated to admit that the Nogitsune was right. He wasn’t going to let the shadowy figures even brush against Stiles. Never.

And then the two men opened fire on the shadows, and Derek slipped round to meet Allison on the other side, encircling Stiles. 

The fight was a blur, literally, because the Onii seemed to be pure shadow. At some point, one of their swords sliced Derek’s shoulder, and he cried out in pain. They eventually dissipated, and when he turned around, Stiles was gone, nowhere to be seen. The others left shortly after.

A sigh escaped his lips as he splashed his face with water as the ache in his chest grew, licking up inside his throat and burning. His other half was out there somewhere, trapped inside his own body with no control as the Nogitsune continued to puppet him.

The idea sent more rage rocketing through Derek’s body and he leaned his forehead against the wall. Nothing was ever simple in Beacon Hills, and now they had to somehow yank a spirit from a human boy’s body. 

But they would, Derek knew that. Because he wasn’t going to give up until Stiles was back and the Nogitsune was gone. Whatever it took.

A/N: tysm for reading!!! i hope you enjoyed!!!! please send requests, im actually begging you.

(taglist: @skellymom, @techs-goggles9902, dm me if you wish to be added or removed)

[beacon-hills]

you think you can kill me?

[obisamya]

i’m a careful driver (i'm a reckless driver)

[verlierer-is-lost]

I know Jeff did not bring back the Nogitsune even though he didn’t have the two key elements that made that villain work so well.

Kira and Stiles.

There’s a reason season 3b was so iconic and most people’s favorite season. Kira and Stiles are why we remember the Nogitsune. THE NOGITSUNE IS LITERALLY TIED TO KIRA’S FAMILY. The fact that Jeff couldn’t see that is not even surprising

Anyway we stan Arden Cho today and forever

[blackhholes]

okay so i was thinking about season 5 deals with death but more specifically with the action of killing someone, because we have two situations where a main character kills someone that the narrative treats extremely differently.

the scene at the end of lie ability between lydia and vallack mirrors the scene at the beginning of a novel approach between stiles and donovan to a certain degree. in both situations lydia and stiles are acting out of desperation and it's a last resort kind of thing that they aren't even really cognizant of. lydia screams because this man has drilled a hole in her head and he's about to kill her because of his own obsession, the voices in her head are getting too loud and she just needs to get it out. stiles pulls the pin because he's been backed into a corner by donovan and he doesn't feel like he can do anything so he does the one thing he can do and it ends up killing him.

so then why when the scenes are so similar does stiles' turn into a season long arc and lydia's is never mentioned again? i think in large part it's because of their own feelings towards the events. immediately after donovan dies we see stiles panic, he calls the cops but leaves the scene before anyone can arrive and when the body disappears he becomes hysterical he starts doubting if donovan is even dead, it feels eerily similar the nogitsune when he would lose time and couldn't trust his own mind. but this time he can't blame it on the nogitsune he did it himself and i think furthers the shame and guilt he feels because before he was capable of explaining what he did as the nogitsune as not being him, that's not something he would be capable of, but suddenly he has to face the fact that maybe he is.

he repeatedly brings up how terrified he is of losing scott when it comes out because to him scott is this all-good person who would never stand by stiles after supposedly proving that there's something rotten about him. this forces him to retreat and pull away from everyone leading to the worst break up scene in television history between him and malia when she reveals she knew but it didn't matter to her. to him this is proof that the nogitsune wasn't completely a foreign entity from him so for someone to tell him it's okay is unfathomable.

this shiftiness and isolation is also why i believe scott was so quick to believe theo's version of the story, because to scott it makes sense that a violent murder like theo described would lead to stiles pulling away like that. he doesn't understand why stiles would act this way if it truly was self defense. i think reading the sciles breakup in season five as a latent showcase of nogitsune trauma for both of them illuminates both of their actions a lot better than if you were to read it as an isolated incident.

so back to lydia how come her killing vallack is never brought up again? it's because she doesn't feel the same levels of shame and guilt as stiles. she's a lot more pragmatic, she did what she had to do to survive and she understands that scott and the rest of the pack understand that as well.

so really what i'm trying to say is that the narrative weight for both these events has less to do with any perceived objective wrongness of their actions and is moreso a narrative tool to explore the emotional weight it applies to the agents over time.

[antelabbitdoods]

LOSE YOUR MIND.

[teecupangel]

Found something interesting while reading contact entries in the database of AC2. It says La Volpe has violet eyes, robbed the pope, that he can see through buildings (eagle vision??) and he's thought to be immortal?

I always headcanon’ed that ‘La Volpe’ isn’t a specific person but a title that gets passed down to what amounts to be the ‘leader’ of the thieves guild.

So the name La Volpe is immortal but the man is not. The La Volpe that Ezio meets and allies with is simply the latest one to take the title.

And, considering that he is an Assassin since he was there for Ezio’s initiation, it wouldn’t be surprising if he has some form of Eagle Vision since we know Eagle Vision could be acquired thru training (or, if you’re a cheating Templar, thru the Animus)

The purple eye thing could be a rumor though but it would be fun to think that La Volpe has such an interesting unique eye color. Perhaps that may also be the reason why he wears a hood: to hide/darken his eye color.

Although, it would be interesting to make La Volpe into some kind of immortal being and…

(From AC wiki’s La Volpe article)

In Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood, La Volpe did not seem to have aged at all, and in fact, he seemed to have fewer wrinkles on his face than in Assassin's Creed II.

It would be easy to make him an Isu sage (perhaps of a ‘god’ associated with foxes, maybe?) as Isus have too distinct physical attributes for us to make him a living Isu.

Although…

So… there are some fox spirits that are well known for possessing humans and they’re usually portrayed as tricksters in lores and myths. (Cunning as a fox, as they say)

One of them is a fox spirit by the name of Da Ji who is well known for being one of the main reasons why the Shang Dynasty fell.

In folklore, probably popularized in the West thanks to the many adaptations of Fengshen Yanyi, Da Ji is a fox spirit (reincarnated as the human Da Ji or the fox spirit possessed the real Da Ji) sent by Nu Wa to destroy the Shang Dynasty on the inside because the king wrote his self-insert smut drabbles (Reader x Nu Wa) on Nu Wa’s shrine.

If we twist that lore to work with the AC lore, perhaps fox spirits are something akin to some kind of slave race created during the Isu-Human War (possessing humans to create chaos) and, in this scenario, they gained their own free will centuries after the fall of the Isu.

La Volpe’s body could be a normal human that had been possessed by one of these fox spirits who had just been interested in the Brotherhood and came to feel some kind of loyalty to it later on. Maybe his loyalty stemmed from Giovanni Auditore’s influence even or perhaps he’s a fox spirit that had been taking on bodies to continue to be La Volpe and he found himself interested in the Brotherhood as well.

Whatever the reason may be, the fox spirit that takes the name La Volpe is an ally of the Brotherhood.

… For now.

[teencopandthesourwolf]

FIAT LUX

written for @sterekdrabblesgonelong using the @sterekdrabbles 23/11/22 challenge words that were: PART, MATTER and SPOT with the end-of-month theme of HONESTY.

sterek fic, MATURE, 2245 words, post-nogitsune stiles, stiles stilinski has PTSD, heavy angst, imagined body horror, healing, getting together, falling in love, POV stiles.

READ IT HERE ON AO3

.

"Hey, you good?"

Somebody spoke. Stiles remembers that. He also remembers thinking, at the time, how it sounded a lot like Derek's voice.

He'd been right. Of fucking course he'd been right. 

Stiles was scrambling to process what had been said to him, alongside trying to figure out what exactly was happening to his still-wobbly sense of self.

"Stiles? Are you okay?" 

Stiles couldn't answer. Couldn't get any sounds out of his strangled throat, nor force his suddenly arid mouth to move and make the right shapes needed for words.

Everything was muddying all over again, his mind and body becoming a wasteland in a heartbeat. He was barren, a damned apocalypse. Truth be told, since his possession, Stiles was just an empty shell, only pretending to be human. And now his memories were flashing before his eyes, having once again become a trailer for his fucked-up, one-man indie zombie movie. Although—no, actually. No, that wasn't right. This wasn't a trailer. The Horrors were back in full, movie-length, and were now playing out their incredibly specific brand of Existential Dread right before Stiles' glassy eyes in all of their glorious, terrible technicolour.

Spawn of the Dead: Double Feature!

Grab yourself an extra large bucket of Salty'n'Sweet and settle in for the midnight showing.

How, though?

How the hell could the parasitic evil which they'd ended—it absolutely had gone, it had!—be so inexplicably here? Like, right here and now, delightedly wrapping one crooked hand around Stiles's stringy neck while using the other to dig into Stiles's already bent-way-out-of-shape psyche, sinking its dirty claws in all the way again until Stiles couldn't think or see straight or even speak.

How could the thing they'd destroyed still have him so very firmly in its clutches?

In his peripheral there were now only blurred-out, bony digits where his fingers were supposed to be; Stiles couldn't stop the violent shaking as he looked down at his hands and felt bile rise in his throat that tasted of reams and reams of filthy bandages rapidly climbing his esophagus, in a far too-real scene from some disgusting, stop-animation nightmare.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten! 

Oh, fuck no. 

It was here. Even if it wasn't really; it was. Here, crippling each of his faculties, one by one with a sickening sort of ease, the ghost of it shutting down his capacity to process his surroundings, to operate his body correctly, to function as a human being, even if only a pretend one. It was too quickly obliterating his ability to just be.

To be Stiles.

Void.

Oh, God. 

No! No! No! No! No! No! No! 

Breath became cement in his lungs. 

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten! 

Re-appeared and yet not, the spectral memory of the Nogitsune was once more burrowing its way beneath pale skin and fragile bone, digging a six-foot deep grave ready to bury Stiles's power to answer a simple question and say No, no, I'm not okay and I really need some help here, and so very easily quashing his in-vain attempts at doing anything at all about this runaway train of a shit-show situation.

Chaos.

He'd lost control again. 

This time it was aftermath. Or aftershocks. Or afterburn or afterbirth or some other after-metaphor for absolute guilt.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten! 

"Can you hear me, Stiles?"

Stiles wasn't really there anymore.

Stiles was spiralling, fast, due to that broken part of his soul ripping apart all over again and gaping open, a casm, a disgraced depiction of his abject shame for his past actions that now flowed out from the ghoulish wound like spilled wine. He looked down to see invisible gut-shot viscera tumbling out of him, staining his shirt and shoes like claret on crisp white sheets and instantly soaking into his skin and muscles and right through to the marrow of his bones, infiltrating his forever-infected anatomy in a strange sort of self-perpetuating vicious cycle. His heart, full of holes, was leaking its last vestiges of goodness, draining right out of him, his body now just a humanoid estuary. Other Stiles Juices added to the polluted mix—tears and adrenaline and cortisol, all becoming a veritable hurricane in his brain and chest and belly, swirling around viciously, dangerously—until it had drowned out his voice and drenched his autonomy in a chorus of non-existent Let me in! Until he'd lost his will completely to a bottomless whirlpool of contempt.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten! 

Oh, Void had truly left its mark. 

And so there he was. Just a stricken, hyperventilating five-foot-ten jagged fissure wearing his clothes and his face. A mask was all that was left of Mieczysław Stilinski: Stiles, just a stupid boy in the body of a not-quite man, who was suffocating in the mould and the rot of himself.

The intangible had brimmed over and drip-drip-dripped until it was gushing freely and spilling right out of him and onto the floor, becoming an epic tidal wave of oblivion that would splash and tarnish and permanently stain everything and everybody around Stiles, all that he loved. 

Again. 

Only this insanity wasn't invisible, not to him. It was a vivid Hieronymus Bosch knock-off. A never-ending bloodbath painted in brushstrokes of the richest of colours. Stiles was an oily waking nightmare, a moving tapestry of his own creation that was playing over and over and over on the glitched-out loop that was his faulty VHS mind.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten! 

"Don't step in it," he'd whispered. 

He doesn't remember if Derek had answered. He doesn't remember much of anything after that. 

Derek, just like everybody else, was poisoned by Stiles's toxicity. Forever marked, just as Stiles had been—because of Stiles.

Stiles, with his bony hands that hid those undetectable tattoos in blacks and blues and mauves that were the inky Rorschach contusions of all his loved one's cuts and bruises; Stiles, with his immortal pattern of dead leaves that twisted along the gnarled branches of his inner Lichtenberg tree; Stiles, with his fear-induced awful decisions that had lead to the lives of so many being taken; Stiles, with his murderous intent—borrowed or not, it made no fucking difference in the end; Stiles, with all of this horror; Stiles, with his blackened soul that was now only recognisable as death.

Yet, in stark contrast, his haemoglobin-bright red ravaged veins were very much not dead. He felt them, now, itching beneath the surface of his skin, unreal yet so real and becoming vine-like, pulsating and stretching out their long creepy creeper-fingers to reach down inside of him, clawing their way back home to the black hole that was his centre. And they were growing. He could feel them swelling in his arms and his legs and his face. Alive. Becoming stronger and stronger, they traversed alongside his nervous system like a road map, journeying through what was left of his tattered existence and getting so big and so fat they too were branches and were somehow both choking him and splitting him clean open—Stiles, roots and all—his thoughts and actions reduced to nothing more than a fractured glass pane in an already damaged photo frame which threatened to crack and turn him into thousands of thousand-year-old shards of nothing but absolute destruction.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten! 

Out, damned spot. 

Maybe Derek had said more words. Begged and pleaded for Stiles to talk to him, to make sense of things for him. For Stiles to tell him what the hell was going on.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten! 

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten! 

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine—

ten? 

Or was it eleven, or twelve that time? 

Too late. 

Rip. Tear. Shatter. 

Stiles had collapsed under the weight of his own mistakes.

*

When something in his brain managed to press the pause button on the horror show, there was only numbness.

Nothing. 

Then remorse had once more seeped through his pores like a poisonous gas, a hazy mist of it eventually filling him and triumphing over delirium because, after some time—minutes, hours, days, maybe—Stiles was finally able to communicate again.

Well, sort of.

There were four words he had to offer.

"It's all my fault." 

And as he'd made frantic attempts to once again count his uncontrollably shaking fingers, he'd whimpered those words on repeat, for an indeterminate amount of time and in a thousand different voices, none of which sounded like his own.

"It's all my fault."

onetwothree—start again.

"It's all my fault."

onetwothreefourfivesixseven—shit.

"It's all my fault."

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine—

"Hey, I've got you."

Derek?

If he wasn't dreaming, it meant Derek hadn't left him. He should have. Stiles was to blame for so very many terrible, terrible things.

But Derek had stayed and minded him, regardless.

He took Stiles in, after that. Fed him. Forced him to wash. Watched him as closely as he ended up holding him, in a way that he shouldn't. In a way that nobody ever should because Stiles was a travesty. Undeserving. But Derek? Derek was good and so Derek did it anyway. And those big arms folding around Stiles broke Stiles all over again, broke him impossibly more. Only it was a different kind of break this time around. Maybe not gentle so much as it was firm and necessary. A resetting of bones.

Then, somehow, slowly, painfully, Derek helped to put Stiles back together again, which was nothing short of a Herculean feat.

That Humpty Dumpty Stiles, he'd spent weeks sobbing and going mute, sobbing and going mute, and sobbing and sobbing and shouting and shrieking and screaming the loft down, bringing his feral nightmares back to life and out into the open and into the here and now, into Derek's already too-difficult world.

Stiles was just a transparent bag of those reset bones. Fused with fear and sorrow and so much sin, glued up all wrong, and held together with tears and snot and guilt and shame—and an ancient, evil-tainted love; a love possessed. 

Until he wasn't. Until there were hints of a new kind of love shimmering around the edges of their lives. Something quiet. Something lighter.

A love made up of Stay here with me and Stay another night and consistently screaming into the dawn but never any pity nor judgement and whole days of silence and then communication via eyebrows and heartbroken Fuck Yous and last-minute notes left on the refrigerator door and second and third and fourth, fifth, sixth chances and just being there and Shut Ups with no real heat behind them and listening and listening and listening some more and sandwiches left untouched until there were sandwiches half-eaten and finally sandwiches scarfed down at the speed of light again and conversations with thumbs-up and thumbs-down and Don't Call Me Dude and comfortable silences and unexpected classical music afternoons and awfully bad puns and quality time spent alone together and Wanna watch the Discovery channel? and smiling eyes and crappy paper planes and precarious mountains of hot buttered toast and stolen borrowed too-big Henley's and thrifted old sci-fi novels and English to Latin dictionaries and games of PSYCH! from opposite sides of the same room and eyes being rolled into the backs of thick skulls and gallons and gallons of Dirty Chai Lattes and a far too-kind and outstandingly stubborn asshole's absolute forgiveness and furtively holding hands in the dark and weighted long looks that said I know, it's okay—I'm broken too and the silent question of Do you want me? and the tactile answer being Of course I do, you idiot. Of fucking course I do. 

It was a love that made Nogitsune love never, ever love. A real love that shook its head softly at such dreadful affection.

Werewolf trumps Demon, every damn time.

* 

Stiles might not be able to laugh—at least not properly, not yet. He's getting there, though. The quirk of his lips today is bigger than yesterday's meagre twitch. And who knows, tomorrow could even bring a grin. Stranger things, right? 

There's still pain. Stigma. Suffering. Still so, so much work to do. Only now it's manageable. A touch easier.

Derek's touch.

There are many more hard days and nights to come, Stiles knows that, but he is nothing if not single-minded and he's making steady progress. Every day, he's mending. Thanks to Derek and Stiles's determination, the fissure that he'd become is closing up and he is no longer infected with quite so much self-doubt. There's scar tissue, sure. How could there not be?

But Stiles is healing.

He's being replenished and renewed, little by little, bit by bit, and at long last he's finally finding his voice again. The right tone, a familiar pitch—and it's strongest in those times he utters a particular word. It's a name, actually, so often spoken as a mantra, or mouthed delicately like a prayer.

"Derek?" 

Of fucking course. 

"I'm here."

No more counting fingers. 

As it happens, Stiles Stilinski is finding his way back to his life and to himself with the help of Derek Hale, sometimes stumbling and yes, often having to crawl from the oppressive blackness, dragging himself through it using only his non-existent fingernails and stubborn will, barely making it out alive by the skin of his teeth.

Yet he knows, now, that he'll conquer that darkness. Because he's not alone anymore. There's help at hand, in his hand, where Stiles holds a candle that burns just as brightly as the Sun, the Moon and the Truth, and won't ever blow out—not while shielded by the shape of the 'wolf.

Fiat Lux. 

Let there be light.

[bumblebeebean]

It's been a while, huh?