#stiles/omc

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

I am looking for a fic and hope y'all can help. I think it was Sterek, had Stackson as a brotp (possibly after an amicable breakup) and is a "Stiles comes back to BH" deal. Derek had rebuilt the Hale house and included a big cuddle room in it and at one point Stiles flees a group cuddle session to run into the woods. I think Stiles is something called a keystone or touchstone and is valued in packs because of it.

It is not the Keystone series or Anthracite, but iirc it was long/had multiple parts and is probably an older fic. Here's to hoping someone knows!

You found your own fic. Thank you for letting me know!

These Faces and These Places by UnstableIntention (BeneficialAddiction)

(58/? I 151,545 I Teen I Stiles/OMC)

Five years after leaving Beacon Hills, Stiles is coming home, and he's not the same lovable goof-ball he used to be. Older, stronger, he can hold his own against almost anything now, but he's still no hero, and with the threat of the nogitsune and a deadly dementia hovering over him, things are only going to get darker.

[usercowboy]

DYLAN O'BRIEN as STILES STILINSKI x RYAN GUZMAN as JONNY ALVAREZ

based on this post

@saintediaz and any other #stalvarez enjoyers

[sapphireginger]

Title: At Our Ex-Spence - Chapter #17

Pairing: Steter [Stiles + Peter]

Rating: Explicit

Warning/Tags:

Flashbacks

Nogitsune Trauma (Mentioned)

Alpha OMC & Past Rape/Non-Con (Mentioned)

Summary:

No, the demon took pleasure in breaking Stiles’s mind piece by piece. Such a young spark with no training or protections in place made for the perfect plaything. So, he turned his chaos inward. “Y-You’re not real,” Stiles says, his voice so soft it’s almost inaudible. “I-I defeated you!” The shadow sways and then smirks, the rotten teeth sharpening dangerously. “We cannot be defeated little boy. What threat are you to us? Us who has been alive since dawn of time? It is we who own you.”

@steter-stackson-bingo

Card Number: 107

Square: Slasher Smile

June is the month Stiles dedicates entirely to his training. His Aunt Klarysa and his cousin Spencer work with him for hours every single day. Peter will often hang around in his full shift form, something he gained thanks to the mate bond and new alpha spark.

Stiles grimaces as the tree finally levitates to an upright position once more. Then he gets the wind knocked out of him as Spencer sweeps his feet out from under him. “FUCK!” he says through gritted teeth.

Spencer stands and offers his little cousin a hand. Stiles just shoves it away and shakes his head, pushing himself to his feet. He only sways a little before heading towards another tree. “Again.”

Klarysa lets him blow off some steam for a couple hours as she tells Peter her plan. He reluctantly doesn’t stop them when she directs an exhausted Stiles to walk with her.

As the spark and the Wrażliwy na aurę become mere specks in the distance, Spencer plops down onto the porch with no grace whatsoever. 

Peter tilts his head. “He’s not going to get better if he doesn’t find a way out of this whole mental state that he’s currently drowning in.”

Spencer quirks a brow and gulps in several gulps of air, said air filling his lungs over and over again. “Yeah. Well, that’s what mother is going to help with. He’s got all the raw ability that is limitless, but he’s just stuck. It happens to all magic users at some point.”

“I remember my mother’s emissary dealing with something of the same. Hers was more the loss of her husband and child in a car wreck. Nothing could be done about it. Her magic could not bring them back. If not for my mother, she might very well have killed herself to join them.”

“Lucky for her she had your mother then,” Spencer says quietly, his eyes focused on the direction in which the two magic users disappeared.

Peter tilts his head in a slight nod. “Indeed.”

✶ 🔎 ❤︎ 🔍 ✶ 

While Klarysa’s home seems rather isolated and very deep in a forest, there is another smaller cabin even deeper in that only she visits. The foliage is thick and disorienting. Not even the sun shines through. It’s not long before Stiles finds himself lost. He could’ve sworn she was right in front of him. His heart starts to beat faster as he spins around. “Ciocia Klarysa?”

There is no response and that’s when he starts to truly panic. Silence and darkness are his worst fears since the Nogitsune. Just as his vision starts to blur, he hears an echo in his mind. 

“Mieszko.”

“Ciocia Klarysa?” he chokes out and turns, trying to find the voice.

The trees begin to sway as a rough wind picks up. Stiles’s eyes go wide in terror as a shadow seemingly emerges from the trunk of a tree.

“Little Mieszko,” the shadow hisses. “So much fear. You should be afraid.”

Stiles steps back, his eyes never leaving the one who still haunts him even now years after the possession. He remembers every second of being a puppet. Though they at first believed he would start killing other people, that is not what happened.

No, the demon took pleasure in breaking Stiles’s mind piece by piece. Such a young spark with no training or protections in place made for the perfect plaything. So, he turned his chaos inward.

“Y-You’re not real,” Stiles says, his voice so soft it’s almost inaudible. “I-I defeated you!”

The shadow sways and then smirks, the rotten teeth sharpening dangerously. “We cannot be defeated little boy. What threat are you to us? Us who has been alive since dawn of time? It is we who own you.”

Something about the statement shocks Stiles out of his terror for a few precious moments. His hand brushes over his mating mark. “No.” He doesn’t raise his voice, simply saying the one word but that one word makes the shadow angry even as it stills completely. Stiles smiles as a few stray tears slip down his cheeks. “I love my mate. I love Peter and he loves me.” 

The shadow laughs, sending shivers down Stiles’s spine. “No one in their right mind could love you! Then again, no one ever said that the wolf was in his right mind. Regardless, he may be your mate, but you belong to us!” it hisses.

“I belong to my mate, and he belongs to me,” Stiles says, his smile shifting into a smirk, “...but there is no ownership. We are equals. No one owns me.”

This time, when the wind grows rougher, it’s accompanied by burning amethyst orbs, shining from the place where amber eyes normally reside. 

“We are not afraid of you, Little Mieszko,” the being says with a smile befitting a serial killer, slasher and psycho all at once. It makes Stiles shiver. “We know what it is that makes you scream. Do you wonder what it is that makes us scream? You do not scare us. You are nothing to us. We are not scared of you.”

Stiles smirks darkly, a hint of fang showing as a black wisp of smoke joined by three more rises up behind him. “Pity. You should be terrified.”

He brings his hand up and tilts his head consideringly. The wind is now knocking the shadow around while Stiles himself remains steadfast. Between one breath and the next a blood curdling shriek, a chorus of hisses and a burning white light erupt. Stiles doesn’t look away as he speaks. 

“Non timeo te amplius. Abite compedes Nogitsune chaos. Ego me liberavi.”

With those words, the shadow explodes outward and then is sucked in like a vacuum, before becoming nothing. Though his breath is slightly labored Stiles feels like a chain, shackle and lock have been broken. He grabs at his chest, sucking in deep breaths. “I-I did it.” He laughs wetly.

A look around finds him still clueless as to where he is, but a tree looks slightly different. Maybe that’s the way. “Ciocia Klarysa?” 

He takes a step forward only to once again freeze at the sound of another presence, a voice that has haunted his nightmares. “Hello Little rabbit.”

Stiles trembles, his hands forming fists as his nails dig into his palms. The pain and slight cuts, bringing blood to the surface, ground him. “Don’t call me that!” he snaps, his tone dripping with icy venom.

The alpha wolf, now a mere shadow but resulting in rising terror nonetheless, stalks closer. “We didn’t get to finish our little game. You’re so powerful little rabbit. I want that in a mate.”

“I have a mate!” Stiles spits. “He has claimed me, and I’ve claimed him. So, you can f-fuck off!”

“Don’t be scared little rabbit. I’ll make it good for you.”

Stiles shudders and takes a step back. He remembers the attack like it was yesterday. The fear and helplessness he felt consumed him, threatening to do so now. He can hear the wolf getting closer but unlike last time, something within him bursts open and with a simple look, he constricts the wolf’s airways.

Clawed hands clutch at the shadowed throat, but Stiles tightens his grip. With another thought, the wolf rises into the air, his feet scrambling to keep upright. It’s no use though as a white fire erupts in a never ending sphere around him. 

A dark smirk forms on the spark’s face as Stiles wills the sphere to grow smaller and smaller, He relishes in the shrieks of pain the wolf lets out, accompanied by high pitched howls of agony.

The spark is not unfeeling, but he knows that some threats cannot live. Though both the Nogitsune and the wolf are but of the shadows now, they still reside inside him. They have been keeping him from all that he is destined to be. He faced one foe and as the sphere closes the final few millimeters of space, there’s another burst of light. Stiles once again, doesn’t look away.

Though his breath is even more labored now, Stiles feels a second chain, shackle and lock break inside him. His eyes flutter shut as a heat so all encompassing washes over him. It floods every fiber of his being. His fingers spark, his muscles thrum with energy and his bond sings.

The spark falls to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably as a feeling he’s never felt before, overtakes him. He manages to press his hand against his chest and rub, feeling a pleasant reaction from his spark. The four black shadow wisps slip back into him until they are needed again. He sinks both hands into the earth as he hangs his head.

“Liber. Liber sum. Liberavi me. Omnia, quæ ego sum, fregi vincula. Non tenebar amplius tenebris et umbra. Ego enim sum tenebrae. lux sum. Nam umbra sum. Ego sum scintilla.”

✶ 🔎 ❤︎ 🔍 ✶ 

Stiles has no concept of time only coming out of his thoughts when a soft caress alerts him to another presence. He’s not afraid as he opens his eyes. For a moment he thinks it’s his aunt but then a slight glow forms around the being of light and he sucks in a harsh breath. “Matka.”

Klaudiya smiles and presses a warm kiss to his forehead. She is not really here but she is never far away either. For a few precious minutes she holds her son, imparting the warmth of her own magic. She silently erases the very last essence of tragedy from her son’s aura, the stain her death left behind on the chłopak.

Another kiss is placed on his forehead, Stiles’s eyes slipping closed at the caress. From behind his eyelids, he sees the light begin to dim before diminishing completely. She’s gone.

✶ 🔎 ❤︎ 🔍 ✶ 

“Mieszko,” a voice calls softly.

Stiles’s eyes flutter open, meeting his aunt’s gaze. “You planned this.” It’s not a question because he knows she did.

“I did, słodki siostrzeniec. You would not have been able to thrive. Your spark would not have thrived either, if you did not face that which has wrought pain and darkness into your life.”

“I bound myself. Didn’t I?” he asks, despite being certain the answer is yes.

Klarysa nods. “Through no intentional fault of your own. It was a fear response.”

Stiles huffs and slowly stands, surprised and yet not when he finds them sitting in the cabin. “How?”

“You tell me, Mieszko. How did I do it?” she asks.

“The cleansing you did when we met that first day of classes. You didn’t get rid of the darkness. You kept it. You knew I would have to face it and today you made sure I did.”

She gives him a proud smile even as her expression is slightly sad. “I did. I do not want you to suffer but suffering is how we learn. The past will always follow us. This is fact and fate entwined. However, when we face the past head on with nothing but will and resolve and wiara… We find out what defines our strength.”

Stiles swallows thickly as he listens. He acknowledges and accepts the past. He accepts and treasures the gift of the present. The spark treasures, appreciates and hopes for the future. “Twoja lekcja została dobrze odrobiona.”

Klarysa smiles. “Thank you, Spark,” she says with pearl colored eyes. Then she leans forward slightly. “Tell me what you have learned.” Her tone is encouraging as she watches him mull over her question.

Stiles chews his lip, his body surprisingly still. “Each event is a shadow. The bigger the event the bigger the shadow but the ability to face it and come out victorious has always been there. I just needed to realize and comprehend it. The past cannot be ignored but once faced loses its hold. It will never be gone but its strength and its power are only defined by the weight we give them.”

“Aye, słodki siostrzeniec. You are only limited by your belief in your will. So long as you believe, none can hope to stop you or stand against you. Well done.”

There isn’t much to say and Stiles finds the silence is comfortable, the need to fill it nearly non-existent. The only thing needing to be said is: “Dziękuję.”

A soft smile comes from his aunt as she nods, pouring them each a cup of tea. “Nie ma za co.”

✶ 🔎 ❤︎ 🔍 ✶ 

When Peter and Stiles leave after dinner, the wolf can tell something happened to his mate. He is dying to know but isn’t going to pester the spark for answers. Peter can scent the amusement on his mate along with the slight amusement bleeding through their bond.

It’s not until they’re washing dishes—Peter drying and Stiles washing—that the subject is finally broached. “I did it.” Stiles's voice is soft, and he keeps his eyes on the soapy water.

“Did what?” the wolf asks, his tone just as soft as his mate’s.

“Faced the shadows.”

“Shadows?” Peter intones confused.

Stiles nods as he finishes washing the last glass. “Mhm. Shadows of my past but I didn’t just face them.” Amber eyes flash amethyst and a bright grin is sent Peter's way. “I defeated them. I destroyed them. I ended them.”

Something like bone deep and soul deep want consumes Peter at his mate’s words. Stiles seems to be of the same mind as the wolf and they leave a trail of ripped clothing all the way to the bedroom. This time Stiles takes his mate for the first time and by the time they’ve both cum, Peter is incoherent, only able to rumble in his chest. Stiles offers his own purr—almost catlike—in reply as they lazily kiss until they fall asleep.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 5 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 10.2k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), depictions of a panic attack, animal death Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You start to unravel some of the secrets hidden in Beacon Hill's other world, and Stiles manages to worm his way into discovering some of your own. 

A/N: this took a minute, so i hope the length makes up for it! comments and reblogs are love, and i am tinkerbell. also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Tag list: @eaterof-concrete

Your anger fizzled with every mile you drove. By the time you finished your third loop around the Preserve, it was just a light simmer of irritation. The void was quickly filled with a different emotion: curiosity. There was a little dread in there too, perhaps also a touch of nausea, but the concoction was still potent enough to distract you from your...whatever that was with Lydia. Now that you were alone, trees blurring together in a ribbon of yellowing-green through your dash, all you could think about was the fire Derek’s family died in. Well, that, and another fire that was always lurking somewhere in your mind, hiding in the shadows, just waiting for the chance to jump out and strangle your heart. 

Beacon Hills was a small town. A town where, until very recently, bad things hardly ever happened. What were the chances of two houses going up in flames four years apart? Of two houses burning down to the foundation in the blink of an eye? Of two homes becoming charred rubble and chilling memorials to the lives lost inside? As far as you knew, they were the only unnatural fires that’d occurred in Beacon Hills in the last century. 

It could all be a coincidence, of course. Nothing. Just a delusional, grief-driven conspiracy. It would be best if you accepted that now before you fell too far down this rabbit hole. It’d taken you two years to finally realize that the police were never going to figure out what really happened to your mom, and those two years had been filled with a series of devastating misdirections, hundreds of dashed hopes and unanswered prayers to a god you no longer believed in. You knew better than this. You did. You knew better than to hope. 

But…maybe. Maybe there was something there. If there was an elaborate plot afoot, you knew just the right conspiracy nut to turn to.

The last time you believed in magic, you were six. You had run the entire mile-and-a-half to Maggie’s dad’s store, hands bloody and cupped into a small nest. You’d almost choked on your quiet, congested whimpers, but after a few minutes of blubbering, you’d finally managed to spit out a few words, “You know how to fix him, right? You know everything.” There had to be a spell, you’d thought, with all the wisdom of a first-grade education. There had to be some magic flower or special potion that could make everything better. 

You hadn’t noticed the look on Maggie’s face when you finally opened your fingers, but Maggie had to have been panicking once she saw exactly what needed to be fixed—cradled in your palms, was a tiny, twitching field mouse you’d found on your way home from school. His little chest had heaved so slowly as he laid limply in your hands, as if he’d already accepted his fate. You’d been so young then, too young to realize that Maggie was only nineteen and faked her confidence more often than she felt it. Nineteen had seemed so old at six, and now it was only three years away. 

Maggie had known, of course, that the poor little guy probably wouldn’t live long enough to see nightfall, but she’d made the fatal mistake of looking into your big wet eyes: still so full of hope and belief in the impossible. Instead of telling you the truth, she’d just said, “I got this," and took the mouse to the backroom—where all the magic happened. You never ended up seeing the mouse again. You realized now that probably meant he died, but you appreciated Maggie letting you live in the land of make-believe for just a little while longer. 

But that was ten years ago. Today, you knew that Mags was only mortal and Willowbark couldn’t actually heal fatal rodent wounds—but you were still hoping, against all hopes, that Maggie actually had the answers this time. 

“Mags?” your brow crinkled as you searched for Maggie and her wild curls. Mags often got lost in the midst of all the chaos, just a small blip in a crowded collection of odd, Victorian-esque relics. You could usually spot at least a glimpse of whatever loud color Maggie was sporting that day. The yellows and pinks were always stark against the dingy backdrop, but today the only colors you could see from the front door were varying shades of sage, oxblood, and charcoal. “Maggie?”

A muffled cry sounded from the storeroom, “Back here.”

The door to the backroom was slightly ajar, and the purple lighting from the mini-greenhouse inside spilled through the crack. It cast a mesmerizing strip of dayglow lavender over the dangly earrings and mood rings for sale next to the register. “Bring me the shears, will you? The pink ones by Giz.”

You dropped your backpack behind the glass counter and drifted towards the sounds of Gizmo’s trumpeting snores. The stretch for the pruning scissors was a bit precarious; the little prince was batting his paws at something in the depths of dreamland and had no presence of mind for your fragile skin. You snagged the shears with minimal carnage and ran your finger along the cool edge, staring at the gleaming surface, “You’re into all local history, right? Not just the made-up stuff?”

Maggie took the shears from your lax hands and squatted next to the potted yew tree on the floor. It was just starting to blossom, red berries dotted sparsely around the spiky leaves—ripe for whatever ridiculous offering Maggie had planned. Maggie blew a ringlet out of her face and fixed you with a stern frown, “My ancestors were witches, and Dragons absolutely did exist. Just look at ‘dinosaur’ fossils from the—”

“Do you know anything about the fire the Hale family died in?” you looked down at your hands so that you didn’t have to see Maggie’s reaction. 

You traced circles around a rosy stain on Maggie’s workbench, likely from ground flower petals or dripping pomegranate seeds, shoulders hunching towards your ears as you continued, “I mean, you’re around the same age as the older sister, right?” Laura. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name, and the hypocrisy was stifling. You hated when people tiptoed around death, when they used pretty euphemisms like that could make what actually happened any less brutal. Less evil. Less unfair. But there was no softening grief. Death. Murder. There was no candy coat sweet enough to cloak the taste of rotting—and yet, you still couldn’t say her name.

Maggie went still briefly and then continued clipping branches, ignoring or not noticing the couple of leaves stuck to her fuzzy sweater. “Why?”

You gritted your teeth and stared a burl in the wood underneath your fingers, “Why do you think?”

Sighing, Maggie spread her clippings across the maple worktop and picked at a few yellowing leaves, “Where is this coming from, babe? I mean, that was a long time ago. I’m almost thirty, you know—ancient by most standards.”

You didn’t smile. Couldn’t. “Do you know anything or not?”

“No,” Maggie sounded genuine, but she kept her eyes on the red stains underneath her fingernails, “nothing more than what was on the news.”

The fact that Maggie didn’t make a quip or a stupid pun was even more telling than her refusal to look in your direction. You folded your arms over your chest and leaned your hip against the doorframe, “Sure.”

“Are you okay, babe?” Maggie wiped the berry residue off on her skirt, and the long hem swished around her ankles as she crept towards you. Her hand was cautious when she placed it on your rigid shoulder, “You aren’t skipping your meds again, are—”

Your eyes flashed as you shook off Maggie’s light touch with a jerk of your shoulder, “Is it possible for me to have a single feeling without everyone jumping down my throat about my meds.”

“I just worry,” Maggie said softly, and she reached for you again, waiting for you to pull away. She tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear when you didn’t. Your limbs were still stiff, and your face was still stony, but you let Maggie grab your hand. It was slightly sweaty, probably from all the indoor-gardening, but there was some comfort in the circles she smoothed over your knuckles. “You know I’m a worrier. Comes with the conspiracy theorist in me.”

You looked down at your feet and dug your toes into the concrete floor, “And my mom’s dying wish—I know.”

A bit of hurt quivered in the corners of Maggie’s reassuring smile, even though she tried her best to hide it, “That’s not the reason I do it.”

Your entire frame slumped with guilt, “I know.” And you did; you did know. You made Maggie drive you to the library every weekend before you got your license, and in return Maggie stole about a dozen of your sweaters once she realized you were finally the same size—Mags wasn’t just your mom’s weird friend from the neighborhood; she was family. She taught you how to make pie crust and scones, and she always read ‘happily ever after’ in the lines of your palms when you needed something to smile about. Maggie did a million little things for you without any appreciation, and you tried to remember every single one as you sat on the floor in front of the ‘Local Culture’ shelf.

Your nose scrunched as you looked over the titles on the spines, searching for anything that sounded even remotely real. Maggie knelt next to you, patch-work skirt billowing around her knees, and watched your fingers drum against the floor. 

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Maggie bumped your shoulder with her own, and you grunted a little response.

“Nothing you can help me with.” Evidently, you thought with only a bit of bitterness. 

Maggie didn’t say anything for a long time. You almost forgot she was there, and then her bracelets clacked together as she shifted. “Here,” Maggie pulled a thick journal out of the depths of her baggy cardigan and held it out with a complicated expression on her face—something halfway between a frown and a smile, “I think you’ll find this one particularly interesting.”

You looked down at the title and rubbed your thumb over the engraved font, “‘A History and Detailed Account of Beacon Hills Bloodlines’?” 

Maggie nodded and shoved her hands into her skirt pockets, “Goes back all the way to the beginning—not literally, obviously. I don’t think they wanted to get into the whole ‘God vs. Big Bang’ debate, but it dates back to when the town was founded.”

“That’s…interesting, I guess,” you flipped through the pages and bit down on your tongue to squash the sneer curling across your lips. It was a nice gesture. You knew that—but what else were you supposed to do when the ‘History’ and ‘Detailed Account’ fell open to an artistic diagram of 'local werewolf packs’ genealogy lines. You were a little interested to see if the names were entirely fictional, or if the journal was an accurate record of Beacon Hill’s very own Werewolf Trials. Probably the first, you’d remember learning about extra hairy men and women being burned at the stake in social studies. 

Maggie huffed out a little laugh and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I know you won’t believe everything in there, but who knows,” she shrugged and held out a hand for you to grab onto, “maybe you’ll finally be enlightened.”

You took her hand and hummed, “While you’re feeling so generous and bad for me ‘cause I’m functionally an orphan, could I get some more of that wolfsbane gunk?” You batted your lashes over the edge of the leather cover and grinned your most adorable smile—the one that dusted off a rare view of your dimples, “It can be my birthday present.”

It was an obvious ploy, but Maggie just laughed and poked one of your dimples, “Your birthday is months away.”

You picked up the speed of your blinking, approaching butterfly-wing territory, and rocked onto your tiptoes, “An early birthday present is still a birthday present.” 

Mags watched you through narrowed eyes for a moment, “You don’t even believe in werewolves.”

You shrugged and smirked, “It works on humans too.” 

“Please, please don’t make me an accessory to murder.” Maggie gripped your shoulders and shook you a little, fighting a smile, “I would not fare well in prison. They limit your internet privileges there—no Wi-Fi, babe. No Wi-Fi. I would be completely alone with my thoughts.”

“The horror,” your eyes glittered with your grin, and for a sweet moment you forgot about the journal in your hands and all the questions it wouldn’t answer. “It’s not for me,” you admitted, grimacing as Maggie’s lips puckered. The pursing of her lips, the hollowing of her cheeks—that always came before a very long and arduous inquisition. Maggie could be relentless when she wanted to be. 

“And whom would you be giving such a precious gift to?” The thickness of her brows only magnified the suspicion in Maggie’s tapered expression, “A gift you called—what was it? ‘Useless’ and ‘stupid’ less than 24-hours ago?”  

“Just because I think it’s stupid, doesn’t mean it’s a bad gift for someone else. I thought the Sonic Chia Pet I gave you was stupid, and you loved it.” You knew you won when Maggie started walking away from you towards the storeroom. You still had no idea how Curio Killed the Cat stayed in business when Maggie handed out inventory like candy, but presently its troubling business model was a blessing in disguise.

“Don’t disparage him,” Maggie crooned over her shoulder, “it’s bad luck.”

“If everything is sacred, nothing is,” you sniped, doing your best Vulcan impression.

Maggie smiled brightly as she hopped over the counter, sticking out her tongue, “I don’t think everything is sacred—just all the things I like.”

Speaking of things Maggie liked—you tucked your first gift under your armpit and held out your hands, palms cupped together. Your mouth curved into a cheesy grin as you said, “Trick-or-Treat.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, but her puckish spark dwindled when she looked at the vile of wolfsbane. It was balanced between her thumb and forefinger, glass reflecting the light, and you felt a bit like you were accepting the One Ring and a quest you weren't prepared for. “Be careful, okay?” Maggie hesitated before dropping the vile into your waiting hands, “I know you love Buffy, but resurrection isn’t so easy off-screen.”

You were a little startled by the concern wrinkling the corners of Maggie’s eyes. She looked almost more worried now than she did when you asked her about the Hale fire. “Like I said,” you carefully eased the wolfsbane into your corduroy skirt, “it’s not for me.”

Maggie's eyes combed over your face, searching for something, and then she sighed, “Just…don’t let anyone drag you into something stupid. I don’t care how cute he is; no boy is worth the risk of ruining your gorgeous face. It’s your money-maker, babe.” 

There was a lot to unpack in those three sentences; you didn’t even know where to begin. There was, of course, the implication that you were going to join some kind of Scooby-Doo gang that dealt wolfsbane on the side. While the thought of going ghost hunting with a pair of boys who couldn’t make it to class without tripping over their feet was, in fact, asinine…that wasn’t the part twisting stubborn knots around your ear canal. 

Your face was dragged down by a broody pout, “For your information, I’m not giving it to Stiles; it’s actually for a guy who isn’t the leading cause of pulmonary embolisms in Beacon County—and I don’t think either of them are cute.” 

That wasn’t strictly true. You did think that Scott was cute, just like you thought Gizmo was cute when he pleaded for treats. You could see the appeal of Scott McCall, why Allison liked him, but you hadn’t thought someone was cute like that in a very long time. A person generally had to actually look at people to think they were cute, and you hadn’t looked beyond forcing one foot in front of the other and your nubby nails in years. 

And as far as Stiles went…honestly, you hadn’t really considered the concept of Stiles as an actual person until Maggie had to go and imply it. You supposed, now that you were thinking about it, he had an objectively nice face: big eyes, button nose, nice jaw—but when you saw him in person, it was almost always covered with an infuriating smirk or making obnoxious sounds. You usually just wanted to shove it away from you. Sometimes, when Stiles was being particularly difficult, you even thought about flicking him right in his long-lashed, honeycomb eyes. You wondered if the Sheriff would arrest you if you— 

That’s right, your eyes rounded with the thought, Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

The recollection rang through every single one of your thoughts and echoed along the caverns of your skull, sparing you from ruminating on something far, far scarier. You were much more comfortable with deduction. 

Your brow furrowed as you pushed yourself over the counter to grab your backpack—sure that Maggie would misinterpret your impromptu exit, but too lost in through to really care—Stiles is the Sheriff's son. You forgot that sometimes. They were so different, after all, and you were certain that Stiles had broken the law at least a few times in his life, but he was. Stiles was the Sheriff's son, and he probably knew things that he shouldn’t. Things that were only kept in confidential files. Fortunately, you didn’t need to think that someone was cute to use them for information. 

“Methinks the Lady doth protest too much,” Maggie chirped. She was fiddling with her branches in the back again, picking the berries and dropping them into a little stone bowl. 

You scowled at the berries like it was their fault you were in this predicament, “Gertrude sucks.

“And yet she was correct,” Maggie tossed a berry at your forehead, and it landed dead-center on the tip of your nose, dripping a small trail of crimson juice onto your cupid’s bow. Maggie laughed until a burst of snorts consumed her giggles, and you scowled deeper as you wiped your nose clean with your sleeve.

“And yet, she’s the prime example of doing something stupid for a boy.” You made a point of flipping Maggie off before trudging towards the door.

You pushed the exit open with your shoulder—rushing to get home to your notebook and pens. Ideas had a way of slipping away from you; you liked to make them real. Tangible. Inked lines and loops that couldn’t be erased. 

Maggie cupped your cheeks before you could slither away to your car, startling you out of your head. “Don’t be Gertrude. Don’t be stupid,” Maggie said, incredibly solemn, but the twinkle of mischief in her eye ruined the 'Yoda effect'. 

You pursed your lips as your eyes flitted towards the side, “I’ll do my best to not marry my dead husband’s brother-killer.” The door swung shut behind you, cutting off the trill of Maggie’s laughter. 

You spent the rest of the night on your bed, sitting cross-legged with your notebook spread open across your lap. You tapped your pen against your knee and watched the blades on your ceiling fan spin into a fuzzy Saturn ring until your eyes watered. You were trying, and failing, to think of a way to ask Stiles for help without him making a big deal about it—contemplating if it was truly worth all the aggravation.

Sighing, you sketched random swirling lines in purple ink. They interconnected in a pretty pattern that eventually took the shape of the maze on your pendant. There was no way out of the labyrinth without breaking down a wall; it was hopeless, a path that never ended. People who entered the maze would be doomed to walk in circles until they littered the ground with their decomposing skeletons—and oh how you envied them. 

Stiles would never let it go; you were pretty damn sure of that. He would poke, and prod, and stick his upturned nose into your business until he'd thoroughly invaded your privacy and got all the answers to his meddlesome questions. He could never ju—

The sound of paper tearing dragged you out of your pitiful brooding, and you sighed. Your pen had ripped through the center of the maze. You held the page up to the light, and it shone through the hole, blinding you momentarily. 

There was no escaping the labyrinth—there was only pushing straight though. 

You spent a lot of your time observing people lately. It wasn’t as creepy as it sounded, at least you hoped it wasn’t as creepy as it sounded. It was just…ever since Stiles dragged you back into the present—kicking, screaming, and bitching the entire way—you had been…overwhelmed by how alive everything was. It felt like so much had happened in the last four years. Everyone had gone on living while you’d hidden away in your mind and rotted in your room. 

You couldn’t put a name to the strange feeling twisting in your chest. You were angry, of course, so angry that people had the audacity to just… live, like there wasn’t a gigantic, bleeding void in the world that had yet to scar over—that might never truly close—but there was something else mixed in with the bitterness, something sweeter.

There was a certain kind of beauty, you mused, in the way they enjoyed such silly things. There was just something about the way they found joy in sparkly nail polish, and their favorite song, and a boy looking in their general direction that had you choking on a foreign warmth. Everyone had something, and it was beautiful to see people grow their worlds around the ugliness while you weren't so consumed with shrinking yours. 

Leaning back against your locker, you watched two freshmen girls walk side-by-side until a flock of tropical-scented, lip-gloss-coated sophomore girls passed them. The taller of the two trailed after them, linking arms with a blonde in the back of the pack. The shorter one watched their hair swish over their shoulders until they walked around the corner, absently tugging at a beaded bracelet on her wrist the entire time. 

In three weeks, she’d start eating lunch alone in the library, hiding in the dark book closet with outdated textbooks as her only companions. In five, they wouldn’t speak unless they had to. You gave the girl a weak smile when she accidentally made eye-contact. Sorry, babe, I read your future. You didn’t even need to see the girl’s palm. 

You pushed yourself off of your locker and shook your head a little, regrouping your thoughts as you slid into your seat next to Stiles. He looked tired. He was slumped over his desk, chin propped on his folded arms, and his eyelids hung heavily over the exhaustion coating his directionless gaze. He barely acknowledged your presence, grunting a little and nudging your foot with his. 

You hid your smile behind your English binder and turned in your seat to face him. “Hey,” you paused, bundling the meager bits and pieces of courage in your chest, and then said, “your perpetual nosiness—that extends to your dad too, right?”

Stiles’s head lulled to the side, cheek pressed against his folded arms, evidently too drained to sit-up. He trailed his squinted gaze over your face, eyes hooded and unblinking, “Why?”

“No reason.” You drummed your pencil against your desk and watched the long red arrow tick forward on the clock above the whiteboard. Stiles watched you fidget with a little sleepy smirk eased into the corners of his mouth, patient and still for the first time since you’d met. It was a shame you couldn’t revel in it. 

You lost the stalemate after your desperation became too thick to swallow, “I need to see a case file. There’s like…nothing on the internet or in Maggie’s local history sagas.” 

That got his attention. Stiles leaned forward, glimmering with intrigue and ill-intent, and said, “Which case?”

“None of your business,” you retorted reflexively. Stiles gave you an amused look and cupped his cheek in his palm, waiting for the inevitable apology. You withered against your chair and muttered, “Does it matter?”

He snorted and lifted a shoulder, “I have a right to know what I’m potentially putting my life on the line for; breaking and entering is a very serious crime, y’know.”

You huffed and glared a little at your clasped hands, “Somehow I know you’ve done worse.”

Stiles didn’t deny it. He just grinned proudly and scooted closer to you, “Seriously, what’s so important you’re willing to steal something from the police?”

“Not steal,” you corrected, a bit too petulantly for your liking, “just…borrow indefinitely.” 

“Uh huh,” Stiles pursed his lips and almost went cross-eyed scrutinizing your face, “so what’s so important you’re willing to ‘borrow’ classified information from the police ‘indefinitely’?”

You paused, not entirely sure how to answer his question without spilling over the edges and ruining everything. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly, bowing your head a little. You picked at a hangnail until it was tender and inflamed, “Just a hunch, really. It’s probably nothing.”

Stiles tapped his fingers against his desk, fast and furious, and let out a dramatic puff of air, “I could help you if you’d, y’know, tell me literally one single thing about it.”

“I don’t need your help,” you scoffed, feet sliding out in front of you as you sunk into your chair. 

He cocked his head and hummed, looking far too smug for 7:45 in the morning, “Besides the whole ‘stealing my dad’s keycard and making it actually possible for you to read it’ thing, right?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mumbled, stalling the inevitable. It felt a little too much like losing to admit that you needed him—even though…you definitely needed him. It was a rather unfortunate fact you were fruitlessly still trying to deny.

Stiles rolled his eyes, neck too, and grabbed his backpack from the floor, “Forgive me for having a hobby.”

He opened his backpack, and you imagined, just for a moment, the zipper latching onto his mouth like a singularly-tentacled alien. It would solve all your problems; you could zip and unzip him whenever you wanted. If only. Sighing, you dropped your head against your knuckles, “Which is��irritating me?”

“Putting the pieces together,” Stiles dropped his coffee-warped, dogeared copy of Metamorphosis onto his desk and flipped to the assigned chapter. His eyes flicked from right to left, pace ridiculously fast, as he scanned through the pages. If it were anyone else, you would’ve assumed it was all for show. “I was a jigsaw kid,” he murmured, nose still stuck in his book.

Your lip stung as you gnawed on the cracking center, “If I tell you what I’m looking for, you’ll help me?”

“That,” Stiles punctuated his statement with a dramatic page flip, “and I might need a tiny favor from you.” He held his pointer finger and thumb together, almost touching, and flashed a toothy smile over the bent cover of his book, “Just an itty-bitty, very small, totally not a big deal favor.”

Your face turned thoroughly sour, “Oh god.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, like he didn’t just intentionally plant the seeds of dead bodies and false alibis in your mind two seconds ago, and huffed, “I just want to check on Lydia, okay? I think I’ll have a better chance of getting in through the front door with you.”

Your smirk flattened, “Why?”

His mouth hung open for a second, and then he shook his head firmly, peering at you through pinched lids, “You first.”

You fixed your gaze on your shoes, shifting your foot from left to the right, watching the fluorescent lights bounce off of the burgundy leather. The extra shine only made the scuffs on the toes more pronounced. “I want to look into the Hale fire, okay?” Your voice got trapped in your throat, so your tone wasn’t as biting as you wanted it to be, “Happy?”

You would’ve been content to keep staring at your boots until class ended, but your attention snapped back to Stiles when he inhaled sharply. He looked baffled, and maybe even a little green in the face, and you were starting to feel a little queasy yourself—nerves tended to turn your stomach upside-down and inside-out all in the same excruciatingly slow flip. His mouth was already ajar, but it took him several red-hand ticks to finally speak, “Why?” 

“Nuh uh,” you crossed your arms and sat upright, rolling your shoulders back, “you go now.”

Stiles was still looking at you with an odd expression on his face, a little too distracted to be difficult. He answered you without any inflection in his voice, “She didn’t show up for homeroom.”

Your intestines unspun with your faint inhale and then immediately dropped to the floor along with your heart as you let out a weak, trembling exhale, “...and?”

Stiles recovered from his momentary lapse in vexation and leaned onto his forearms, "And it’s your turn again.”

You wished you had a simple answer for him, and, even more so, you wished you were a better liar. “There’s kinda no way to answer that without trauma dumping all over you,” you mumbled, intensively examining the fine ridges in your nails. 

“I can handle a little trauma.” Stiles rapped his knuckles against the top of his head and smiled a little, “I’ve got nothin’ but space up here.” 

People always said that—that they’d be there for you no matter what, that they could handle anything—and then they got a real good look at the ugly of it all, at the dirty hair and rotting kitchen, at the prolonged silences and self-absorbed isolation. People usually took off running pretty quickly after that. At least, Lydia had.

“There haven’t been that many residential fire fatalities here. Just two cases, actually.” You chewed on your thumbnail and shrugged, “I know they said the Hale fire was an accident, but…maybe there’s a connection.” You swallowed, and your boot squeaked against the floor when you kicked at the ground, “Or maybe I’m just a dumbass with too much spare time.”

Stiles stared at you, and you could see the exact moment he connected the pieces. You were expecting the usual nauseating sympathy, the well-intentioned kindness that always flirted with the edge of pity, oftentimes landing smack-dab in the middle of it—but there wasn’t a drip of pity in his eyes. They were filled with grief; for you or for someone else, you didn’t know. Maybe it didn’t matter. More importantly, perhaps, his eyes were shining with…relief, pure and simple relief that nothing else needed to be said. 

“I’ll get you into the file room,” Stiles said, low and soft in his throat, and he didn’t look away from you until Scott slid in-between your desks. They did a complicated series of high-fives and hand-shakes with a few ‘knucks’ thrown in here and there for good measure. 

Before Scott sat down behind Stiles, he smiled in your direction. You looked past him, assuming Allison was behind you, and watched a red-breasted robin flit around a tree through the window. You saw Scott’s hand move in your peripheral vision, and when you tore your eyes away from the streak of scarlet feathers and blue sky, your lips tipped into a timid smile. Scott was waving at you; he was smiling at you. You didn’t know when your world went from no friends to two, but it felt oddly…normal. Smiling back at Scott, dodging Stiles’s kicks at your feet, trying not to laugh at their goofy faces. It felt like it was part of your routine, exactly the same as organizing your pens and pencils on top of your desk at the start of class, and just like that: normal twisted into terrifying. 

You chewed on the end of your pen when you felt Stiles’s gaze on the side of your face, “So…why do you want to see Lydia—besides your typical stalker behavior, obviously.” 

“You’re gonna feel like such an asshole,” Stiles grinned a little and nudged your toes, but there was something strange tucked in the corners of his mouth, something a bit grim, a bit afraid. Whatever it was, his cheeks didn’t dimple with his smile, and you gnawed on your lip once you realized that you not only noticed their absence but you missed them. 

You peeked at him from under your lashes and frowned when you saw that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were gone too. Stiles’s grin eroded away to little more than a flat line once he started speaking again, “Jackson was attacked by…something last night—they’re saying mountain lion, but you and I both know that’s bullshit—anyway, she was pretty freaked out when my dad got there.”

You stiffened, spinal column drawing into a taut line from the crown of your skull to your tailbone, and your blood went cold. You already knew Lydia hadn't shown up for school today. You always knew—you felt Lydia’s absence just as fiercely as her presence. The air was just different somehow. You didn’t even have to look for her anymore; an innate rabbit-sense always reared its head when Lydia was too far away…when she was too close. Your instincts couldn’t agree on anything. They couldn’t decide if Lydia was a rabbit or a fox, and it was exhausting—but at the moment all you wanted, all you needed, was to make sure that Lydia hadn’t been torn apart by a monster with sharp claws and serrated teeth. 

“And she isn’t here,” you finally said, barely above a whisper.

“And she isn’t here,” Stiles echoed, just as quiet. 

“Okay,” your head bobbed with a decisive nod, knees moving before your mind had the chance to scold them, “let’s go.”

Stiles’s jaw unhinged alarmingly fast and comically wide, “Wha—now?”

You pushed everything on your desk into your backpack with a broad sweep of your arm and jerked your head towards the door, “Come on, before class starts.”

Stiles blinked at you for a few moments and then floundered for his things when you started walking out of the room without him. He stumbled into a desk in his rapid, ever-so clumsy efforts to catch up with you and twisted around to salute Scott’s empty chair. Apparently, neither of you had noticed his exit. It seemed it was a perfect morning for ditching class, but you didn’t dwell on the consequences for long. Your focus was single-minded and unwavering, and Stiles had to jog to keep up with your stalwart stride. 

“Since when are you so helpful,” he muttered, slightly out of breath. 

“I told you,” you gave him a wry smile and shoved the exit door open with your back, holding it for Stiles until he was halfway through the frame—and then you promptly stepped out of the way and watched the door swing shut on his backpack. Your lips twitched with a grin, “I’m a nice girl.”

Stiles yelped a little and looked over his shoulder, ensuring all his limbs were intact before yanking on his straps. His backpack smacked into his shoulders, and the heavy textbooks inside slammed together with a satisfying thump. You snickered and dodged his attempts to kick the back of your knees.

Glowering, Stiles switched tactics and tried to step on your nimble feet. Tragically for him, all the fire in his indignation was lost to his plush pout, “Since when?”

You rolled your eyes and waited next to his jeep, anxiously tracing little swirls in the dirt caked onto the passenger door, “Since I met you.” 

You missed the look on Stiles’s face, but that was for the best. His honeyed smile would’ve changed your mind, and you had an ex-best friend to attend to.

****************************

The jeep was quiet for the first few minutes of the drive—at least, it was as quiet as a decrepit clunker could be. There were various clangs and squeals in-between the engine’s low rumble, and a soft indie song filled the silences in-between, but the air felt still. Stiles was intently focused on the road ahead, thumbs drumming against the steering wheel to a beat of his own making, while you picked at your cuticles, cycling between anxiety and denial. It was a subliminal game of chicken that Stiles eventually lost. 

After a few false starts, Stiles blurted out, “You ever gonna tell me what happened?”

You stared straight ahead, through the bug-splattered windshield and down the winding street, “Nope.”

“Fine. That’s fine.” Stiles flexed his fingers against the steering wheel, straightening them to their impressive full-length, and then wrapped them around the wheel again. His grip was as tight as the grit of his teeth, “I don’t even want to know anyway.” You lulled your head to the side to smirk at him, but you kept your mouth thoroughly closed. Stiles’s gaze flicked in your direction briefly, and then he directed his eye roll towards the road, “I don’t. Keep your boring secret.”

You settled further into the passenger seat and propped your feet on the dash, grin warm with satisfaction, “I will.”

The beat of Stiles’s thumbs sped up, thundering against ‘9’ and ‘3’ while you hummed along to the trickle of piano and acoustic guitar strumming through the cracked speakers. The time on the dash display flickered from 8:15 to 8:16, and Stiles let out a long, drawn-out groan, “Will you just tell me! It’s killing me. Seriously, I’m going to credit you in my epitaph. ‘Here lies Stiles Stilinski: Another Victim of Gaslighting, Gatekeeping, and Girlbossing.’”

“They say you always remember your first,” you sighed dreamily, battering your butterfly lashes. The mole on the hinge of his jaw jumped with a harsh swallow, and you grinned. 

Stiles snorted and then immediately grimaced like he was irritated with his mouth for having the audacity to laugh in the midst of his despair. “Good to know I’m just part of a pattern.”

“I don’t know about that,” you hummed, resting your temple against the window. The morning sun warmed your skin and washed your face with a glimmer of gold that glittered with the devilry in your eyes. You smirked at Stiles and poked the mole just below his earlobe, “I have yet to meet anyone as homicidally inspiring as you.”

He pulled a face to hide his smile as the jeep puttered to a stop against the curb, and you looked over his shoulder, blinking slowly. You hadn’t realized you were so close to Lydia’s house until you were parked in front of it. 

The colonial estate loomed largely through the window. The long white pillars stood oppressively alongside the double entrance, and the meticulously manicured lawn screamed ‘keep off’ louder than any sign or barbed-wire fence. Lydia’s house had always been more like a monument than a home: an art installation, an antique, something to be admired not loved.

Tilting your head, you squinted at the familiar windows and counted along the second floor until you found Lydia’s room. The heavy purple curtains were drawn closed, and you were a little surprised that Lydia hadn’t redecorated in the last couple years. It was probably different on the inside; sixteen was a little old for dollhouses and princess crowns.

Growing up, Lydia’s room was stocked with every Barbie accessory on the market, and yet you always played Barbies at your house. Every single time. When her dad was home, Lydia’s house had teetered between too quiet and too loud. A constant vague unease hung heavily in the air, even with the volume on her CD player turned all the way up. No boy band could drown out all the screaming and icy silences, but you'd tried. Oh how you'd tried. It happened so often, you’d eventually gotten used to the noise, but you could tell it’d bothered Lydia, no matter how unbothered she’d tried to seem. 

In comparison, your house was the Dreamhouse. It was so warm before it became empty. Your mom always had something baking in the oven, and Lydia had never looked more at home than when she was tucked on your window seat, plate of brownies by her side, with your mom’s gentle hands braiding her hair out of her face. You hadn’t ever minded sharing; Lydia needed the attention more than you did. She was so much softer than people gave her credit for, far more fragile than they’d ever know. 

In spite of her current taste in boys, Lydia used to be a steadfast romantic. She'd always wanted to reenact the romance novels stacked on her nightstand, a little heartbreak before the inevitable happily ever after. She used to read so voraciously there was a new plot to perform every day. You were also a bookworm, but your tastes had inspired morbid hits such as Black Widow Barbie and Dreamhouse Zombie Outbreak. You'd usually take turns, or Barbie ended up falling in love with zombie Ken until he chomped on her arm. 

“Not her brains,” Lydia had always insisted, “Barbie is the brains of the relationship.” 

Lydia, you'd argue, Lydia was the brain. The only one that mattered.

Warm skin on your knuckles gently drew you back into the present. Stiles’s brow was pinched with concern, and his hand lingered on yours until you brushed him off with a shake of your head—but, as you’d come to learn the last couple weeks, Stiles Stilinski was nothing if not relentless. He leaned into your side as you walked along the lengthy driveway, sending you stumbling a few paces to the right. You glared at him, but it was watered down with stubborn affection. His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, and you forgot about the nerves wriggling up your esophagus until Stiles rang the doorbell. They came back full force when you heard a pair of high heels clicking towards them. 

Lydia’s mom peered out the door. She looked confused as she took in Stiles’s smile, stretched far too wide to look even remotely casual. Then, her gaze landed on you and her face broke out into a bright grin, “Y/N?”

You’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was; beauty ran just as deeply as old money in the Martin family. Lydia was born with her mom’s golden-red hair and hazel eyes, and they had the same dimpled smile. It was always difficult to see anything beyond the brilliance of their perfect teeth and incandescent skin. 

“Come here,” Mrs. Martin pulled you into a tight hug and cupped the back of your head with a steady hand. Your arms remained stiff by your sides, voice sticky in your throat. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been hugged like this; the realization hurt more than you thought it would.

After a moment, your shoulders slumped, and you turned your face into Mrs. Martin’s shoulder. She still smelled the same, like patchouli and luxury, “Hi.”

She held you out at arm's-length, hands on your shoulders, and shook her head, “There’s no way that this beautiful young woman is the same little girl who tried to keep a frog colony in my guest bathroom. I can’t be that old.”

“You literally look exactly the same,” you smiled a little and rubbed your bicep.

“It has been far, far too long.” She smoothed out the wrinkles in your sleeves and then stepped back into the doorframe, “What can I do for you?”

“I…” your mouth went dry, and you looked everywhere except Mrs. Martin’s face. Your eyes flashed between the silver door knockers, the winding ivy, the sculpted shrubs. Everything was exactly the same. Nothing, not even the house, had noticed your absence. 

“We came to check on Lydia,” Stiles nudged your shoulder, and you blinked a few times. Mrs. Martin was watching you with big emphatic eyes—and you hated it. 

You swallowed and nodded, “Yeah…we brought her homework.”

“Come in.” She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose with freshly manicured nails, “She took a little something to relax herself, so please excuse…well, just be prepared.” Mrs. Martin sighed, and for the first time it looked like the last four years had actually aged her. She attempted a smile, but it was shriveled at the corners, “You remember the way, don’t you?”

A nod rolled up your neck to your head. You couldn’t find the words to tell Mrs. Martin that you weren’t the same girl anymore. You almost felt like her in this house: small, wild, still full of dreams. You crept up the curved staircase slowly, delaying the inevitable, and ran your fingers along the iron railing. You broke your arm falling off of it nine years ago. It was a nasty fracture that put you in a cast all summer, but it’d seemed worth it at the time. At least, you’d thought so. Your mom and Mrs. Martin hadn’t agreed with your assessment at the hospital.

You felt a twinging urge to run to the top of the stairs and slide down the railing until you became dizzy—and just like that, you were seven years old again, and you weren't scared of death or ending up alone. 

“You coming?” Stiles called from the top of the stairs. 

You nodded stiffly and pushed past him to the last door on the left. You held your hand on the doorknob and pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth, scowling at the anxiety crawling under your skin. You were being ridiculous. It wasn’t like you were the one who ended up in an ambulance last night.

You rapped your knuckles against the door a few times, even though it was already cracked open wide enough to catch a glimpse of the raspberry walls and flower chandelier. “Lyds–ia. Lydia,” you cleared your throat and peeked into Lydia’s room, “it’s me. I mean, it’s Y/N.” Stiles nudged you in the ribs, and you sighed, “And Stiles.”

Lydia was face-down on her four-poster bed, slowly combing her fingers through her unbrushed hair. She smacked her lips together a few times, and then her head popped up from her mountain of throw pillows, “You still haven’t explained what the hell a Stiles is.”

You snorted and shot Stiles a pointed look. He pursed his lips and glanced around the room until he spotted a little bottle of pills on top of her vanity. He read the lengthy label and let out a low whistle, “Bet you can’t say, ‘I saw Sally sell seashells by the seashore.’”

Lydia swung her legs over the foot of her bed and leaned forward, eyes sparking with bullheaded determination. “I saw….I saw…” The light in her eyes faded as she drifted off to a place no one else could see.

You sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. You didn’t have to tell your body to move; it knew before you did. Finding Lydia when she was lost, it was like…swimming to the surface, shivering in a storm, bracing for a fall. It was an instinct so deeply rooted in your soul you couldn’t rip it out without rupturing an artery. You watched Lydia’s eyes focus on your face, felt her fingers lace with yours, and all you knew was the slow thump of Lydia’s pulse against your thumb.

Lydia squeezed your hand and swiveled to face you. Her eyes were still cloudy, but something warm dawned behind the fog. You felt the pit in your stomach roll. Lydia sighed happily, “There you are. I was looking for you.”

“Well,” you almost choked on the lump in your throat and struggled to support Lydia’s weight as she went boneless against your side, “here I am.” You searched for some assistance with Lydia’s rapidly sinking frame, but Stiles was busy poking around every nook and cranny in the room. “Stiles,” you snapped. 

He wrenched his hand away from Lydia’s bottle of Dior perfume, purple just like the rest of the room, and clasped it behind his back. “What?” 

You gestured violently towards Lydia's wilting spine and rolled your eyes when he tripped over a discarded boot in his, frankly pathetic, haste to get to Lydia’s other side. You gently maneuvered her until she was propped up against her pillows. 

“Don’t go away again, okay?” Lydia licked her lips and looked like she was about to cry—so much like a scared little girl, your heart clenched. “I keep losing you.”

“I,” you stared at her with wide eyes, and the bottle of pills enveloped your peripheral vision, “I just wanted to see if you were alright…after last night.”

“Last night,” Lydia slurred, nuzzling back against her pillows.

“Yeah, last night,” Stiles folded his arms over his chest and arched his brow, “remember anything about it?”

“I remember…” Lydia looked like she was going to cry again, eyes glassy and round, but the chemical high quickly swept over the tide, “I remember a mountain lion.”

Stiles’s head tipped back between his shoulder blades, and his cheeks slowly puffed into pink little domes as he held his breath. Apparently, there was one thing more powerful than Stiles Stilinski’s obsession with Lydia Martin: his impatience. Stiles’s lips puckered as a loud sigh whooshed through his teeth. He crouched down to Lydia’s eye-level, “You remember seeing a mountain lion, or you remember them telling you it was a mountain lion?”

Lydia hummed and nodded until her hair fell in front of her face, “Mountain lion.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles reached for a stuffed giraffe next to her shoulder and shook it in her face, “what’s this?”

“Mountain lion,” Lydia’s head bobbed sharply. 

You snatched the stuffed animal out of Stiles’s hand, scowling as you bludgeoned his arm with the giraffe’s head. “Leave her alone. She’s doped out of her mind.” 

“Clearly,” Stiles snorted, watching Lydia curl a strand of her hair around her finger, completely entranced by the frizzy strands. 

“What did you want her to say?” You smoothed a few stray hairs sticking up from the crown of Lydia’s head back into place and met Stiles’s gaze, face impassive, “Werewolf?”

He opened his mouth and gaped like a particularly brainless fish. Before he could come up with a coherent answer—or any kind of answer, actually—Lydia’s text-tone chimed. Stiles dove across the bed for her phone, but you smacked his hand with the giraffe before he could touch it. “You are so not reading her texts, lonely boy.”

“I was just trying to help.” Stiles flopped onto her vanity chair and crossed his arms, squirming sullenly, “She can barely string two words together, let alone an actual thought.”

“I’m sure whatever it is can wait until she’s good and hungover tomorrow.” You glanced down at Lydia’s phone and paused. It was a video file. From an unknown number. 

“Hey,” Lydia poked her head up and pointed at Stiles until the weight of her arm became too much to bear. It fell on top of her stomach like a limp noodle, “You.”

“Me,” Stiles squeaked. 

You muted the video and made sure Stiles was sufficiently distracted by the curl of Lydia’s finger before you pressed play. Nothing happened at first. The video was shot in a strange, almost voyeuristic style, and the lighting was terrible, so dim you could barely tell that the camera was facing a large window. You squinted and made out the video store’s sign flickering above the door. So, this was from last night. Weird—but at least it wasn’t revenge porn; that had been your first guess. 

You’d almost given up on finishing the video, and then the camera angle moved. Two red eyes flashed in the darkness, a large…something smashed through the glass, and you bit down on your thumbnail so hard blood welled through the sidewalls. 

It was a goof, obviously. Some kind of poorly edited creepypasta. A cruel prank someone sent Lydia after they heard what happened last night. Had to be. Your hands shook as you sent yourself the video, and then you deleted it from Lydia’s phone. Your number, you realized once you stopped seeing red, was still saved as ☀️✨Babe!!!!✨☀️ in Lydia’s contacts. It took you longer than it should have to delete the sent message.

“If you’re done fighting your erection, we should get going.” Your voice sounded remarkably even, considering how scattered your mind was. It was certainly more composed than the babble spewing from Stiles’s mouth.

“I do not have—it’s not like—I wasn’t—she thought I was someone else.”

“Ah,” your phone felt heavy in your pocket, “real boner killer.”

Stiles sighed through his nose, “New rule, you can't make fun of anything I do or say when Lydia's in my fuckin' lap. Starting now."

He must’ve known something was wrong when you didn’t argue. That, and the way you practically sprinted out of the house to avoid seeing anyone else. Your hands were still shaking when you crawled into the jeep, and Stiles shot about a dozen little furious, concerned glances in your direction, but you couldn’t seem to move your tongue. 

Your bottom lip quivered. Your chest tightened until your ribs corseted your lungs. The screech of your ground teeth sent an unpleasant chill down your spine, but you’d rather choke on a chipped tooth than let the beast howling in your throat escape—the last thing you needed was to cry in the passenger seat next to Stiles Stilinski.

You were clearly losing your mind; everyone said it was only a matter of time—watching a loved one burn to death tended to have that effect on a person. Not that you remembered much, but you were clearly off your rocker if you were having vivid, day-time hallucinations of red-eyed monsters roaming the streets of Beacon Hills. 

You wiped your sweat-damp palms on your dress and bounced your leg up and down, driving your heel into the floor over and over again—and then you felt a solid warmth over your knee. Your eyes were a little wild when you followed the trail of Stiles’s arm to his face, and the divot between his brows deepened when he met your gaze, “Hey, she’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”

Your head jerked with a quick nod, and you sucked in a few shallow breaths, “I know.” The air got stuck in your chest, and your heart flapped erratically as the back of your eyelids played reruns of a familiar film starring your narrowing trachea. You dug your toes into the dusty floor mat, scrambling for any kind of grasp on reality, and choked on your words, “Her mom always…had…the good shit.”

Stiles kept his hand on your knee and then shook his head, pulling over against the curb and putting the jeep in park. “You don’t have to talk, but you gotta breathe.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was squeezing your kneecap in even intervals. You inhaled and exhaled with the flex of his joints until the panic receded enough for embarrassment to heat your cheeks. You slammed your head back against the seat and stared at the steel roof. You hoped that if you ignored the tears bubbling along your lash line, they’d instantaneously evaporate before they could spill onto your cheeks, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I don’t usually…this hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Stiles chewed on his cheek and pulled his hand back into his lap. He drummed his fingers against his kneecap and then spoke softly, “I used to get ‘em too. Sucked.” Stiles stared out the dashboard, watching but not really seeing dead leaves swirl in little circles over the asphalt, “Happened a lot after my mom died.”

You froze for a moment, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring. You realized, belatedly, that you hadn’t ever heard the Sheriff talk about his wife, not even once in the last four years, even though he wore a gold band on his left ring finger. It hadn’t even occurred to you to ask. 

You never had the right words to explain it. For a long time, you spoke in ripples at therapy, incomprehensible circles that skirted the point in an endless loop—but you realized, as you got stuck on the honey in Stiles’s eyes, you didn’t need the right words here. With him. In fact, you didn’t really need any words at all. “Me too.”

Stiles watched your eyes steadily, and his fingers stilled against his legs, “Yeah?”

You nodded and swallowed a little, “Yeah.”

A smile tugged on his mouth, tangled with too many paradoxes to parse in the soft, short moment humming between you. You smiled back at him, far more timidly, but that wasn’t a surprise. He was brave, you decided, much braver than you. It was contagious. 

Your tongue darted out, licking your chapped lips, and you clung to the fragile current of courage lapping against the back of your teeth. “We just stopped talking.” 

Stiles glanced at you, clearly confused. 

“Lydia and I.” You knotted your fingers in the hem of your dress and tugged on it every time you felt the stopper in your throat start to swell, “We just stopped being friends after my mom died. That’s why I didn’t…I mean, there’s not really a story to tell. We were close, and then I woke up one day, and we weren’t anymore.”

Stiles turned until he was facing you, leaning against the door and struggling to find a comfortable angle for his long legs. “Most people…they’re okay with the funeral part ‘cause it’s pretty simple—y’know: hold hands, bring food, pretend no one’s crying. And then after comes, and they can’t figure out what to do because it’s over, but it’s not.”

“Limbo,” you mirrored his position and pulled your knees to your chest. You rocked the soles of your boots from heel to toe, like small patent leather boats adrift on a sea of faded nylon, “It’s limbo, and everyone else is so incredibly, hideously alive.” 

The relief was back in Stiles’s eyes, and you were swimming in it. He nodded and bent his knees, scooching his feet until the toes of his sneakers were pressed against yours. “Yeah," he exhaled, and the moment felt important, like something you were supposed to remember on your deathbed. You tried to memorize the look on Stiles's face, but you didn't know where to start. How could you etch infinity?  

“It wasn’t just her,” you admitted out loud for the first time. 

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugged a little and gave you a grin that brought the dimples back to his cheeks, and you couldn’t help but smile at their reappearance, “but we can pretend it was, just for today.” 

You let out a breath that felt like a laugh and lifted your toes, dropping them on top of his and pressing down until they were pinned beneath the tread of your boots. Stiles narrowed his eyes and wriggled his feet free, fighting your scurrying ankles with his tongue trapped between his teeth. His triumphant cry when he finally caught the tip of your laces was just enthusiastic enough to coerce another laugh through your clamped lips. 

The soft smile Stiles gave you while you laughed made his body go lax and the back of your neck warm. You quickly bent over to retie your laces, and he turned to restart the engine. 

“I should probably get us back to school,” Stiles ran his hand over his head. “My dad'll kill me if I get marked truant again.”

“It’s parent teacher conferences tonight,” you recalled as the words left your mouth. You slunk down in your seat, chin catching on the seatbelt, “I’ve never skipped school before. I have no idea what my dad’s gonna say.”

Stiles’s attention shifted from the road to your profile, “Really?”

“What?” you crossed your arms over your chest and blew your hair out of your eyes.

“Nothing,” Stiles tried to hide his smirk, but it was too sharp to cover with a cough, “it’s just…hasn’t everyone skipped at least once?”

“What would I even do?” The corner of your mouth tugged into a dry smile, “Visit my catatonic ex-best friend?”

Stiles nodded agreeably, and then his head danced from side to side, rolling over other options, “Or bowling. Bowling is fun.”

You grumbled a little in your throat and sunk further into the cradle of your hips, “I hate bowling.”

Stiles grinned, “Yeah, me too.”

Pausing, your bottom lip wormed its way between your teeth, “I’d play D&D with you, though.” 

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you watched the sun disappear behind the tree line over the hill and ignored the feeling of being examined like a bacterial petri dish.

“See, we are friends. The best of friends, actually. Two peas in the proverbial pod.”

And, well, you couldn’t really disagree.

[saveahorserideaneddie]

authors who won't tag their fics properly PISS ME OFF!!! one time i read a buddie fic where buck had sex "onscreen" multiple times with an OC, and even developed feelings for the OC to the point where he was like, "if eddie didn't exist, I could really fall in love with OC" - and there was no Buck/OMC tag?!?!?! like. wtf?? i don't click on a buddie fic to read about buck screwing some OC the author is in love with?!? i muted that author. also, sorry this seems to be an increasingly controversial take in buddie fandom, but i also get pissed off when people refuse to tag for sexual stuff including Top/Bottom, and even act judge-y in their author's note/comments about people who DO want stuff like that tagged. all like, "It shouldn't matter" "it's not important" - ok if it's not important, then just please take one second to tag it so people can read what they want to read, and avoid what they want to avoid?? now i just mute authors who won't tag sufficiently.

i don’t understand people’s apprehension to tagging what is included in their fics… like i’m not claiming ot be perfect at it myself like im sure ive made mistakes but like i try my best to be as clear about everything as i can be. and i have read similar buddie fics where it feels like eddie/omc are the main ones and they’re played as this sort if “right person wrong time” think but eddie/omc aren’t tagged and im like ?????

if im reading a buddie fic unless i explicitly search for sad/unhappy or hopeful ending that fic better end with them being madly in love with each other as if there is no one else in the world but so many fics have these elements of them almost “settling” for each other snd im like a) how ooc is that, and b) do you even ship them atp???

and i definitely understand your frustration over the position tags for smut fics— personally i don’t care either way when it comes to buddie but there are other ships where i am picky about the kind of smut i read (i can think specifically of an old sterek fic i read that was a slow burn and it ended with one smut scene and it was top!stiles which… yeah that might be some people’s preference but it wasn’t mine and so i had to skip the whole chapter of that fic)

unfortunately i think people just like to bait their tags so that they get more views and it’s like…. there’s nothing wrong with wanting your fic to reach a wide audience, but if you’re writing purely for hits/clout then your already writing for the wrong reasons imo 🤷

[spikeface]

Beast in the Echo - Part II now complete! (chaps 11-22)

Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski/OMC (Sterek endgame)

At sixteen, Stiles was kidnapped, held prisoner by Kate Argent, and abused by her brainwashed captive, Derek Hale. Now, nine years later, Stiles returns to Beacon Hills for the first time since graduation. Scott has been captured by a werewolf-fighting ring. To infiltrate it and rescue him, they need Derek.

Derek will only work with Stiles.

A sequel to the mother we share, although it can be read as a standalone if you want (see notes).

Tags and warnings under cut.

Tags: Past Kate Argent/Derek Hale, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Malia Tate/Kira Yukimura, Past Stiles/Malia/Kira, Sterek endgame, Graphic Violence, Torture, References to Past Sexual Assault, References to Sex Work, issues of consent, Slavery, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, PTSD, Disassociation, Coping Mechanisms, Panic Attacks, Dark, Slow Burn, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Full Shift Derek Hale, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, internalized ableism, Drug Abuse, Obsession, Canon-Typical Horror, BDSM Trappings, Background Character Death, happy ending but in a dark context idk it’s complicated, Allison Argent Lives, indulgent use of Pausanias, indulgent use of everything, seasons 1-4 centric, See Notes for Additional Warnings

[sterek-ao3feed]

Booty Call

Read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/58054168

by primrose_path

The thing was, Derek-and-Stiles had just sort of happened. Stiles had come home during his Christmas break during his freshman year of college, and Derek had been a little bit (read: a lot) wasted on wolfsbane-spiked eggnog, and before he realized what was happening, some friendly manhandling on the couch had turned into some more-than-friendly making out had turned into some third base action that would have turned into a home run, except that when Derek stumbled to the bedroom to get a condom, Stiles was passed out by the time he got back, drooling onto the armrest and softly snoring.

So it wasn’t that Derek was jealous, exactly, because Derek was the one Stiles was making out with on a semi-regular basis. It was just that, for something that they both insisted was “casual” and “not that serious,” even bordering on “friends with benefits” territory, they were moving awfully…

Slowly.

Words: 3374, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski

Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Additional Tags: Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Bottoming, Anal Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Dirty Talk, mentioned past Stiles Stilinski/OMC, I’d tag it Friends With Benefits but it’s more Dating But They Don’t Realize It

https://archiveofourown.org/works/58054168

[colethewolf]

🚨🚨 NEW DRABBLE FACTORY CHAPTERS!!! 🚨🚨

1. Prom Practice (Pt. 2) - Stiles/Peter/Derek

Prompt: I don't know if this is your tea, but I never saw any fic like that, so I'll try it anyway. Boypussy!Peter, like Stiles and Derek are virgins, so Peter manipulates them both to use his pussy and hole for practicing. They are new to it, so they cum many times, by the end Peter's pussy is sore and gapping and all wet with fluid making those wet sounds, but he don't care, he likes it to be rough. He could let those young men dp him all day long....

Tags: Boypussy!Peter, Incest, Squirting, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Breeding

Pairings: Stiles/Peter/Derek

2. Thanks for Dinner, Mr. Hale - Stiles, Scott, Derek/Intruder OMC

Prompt: Anything with unaware hypno smut (maybe everyone around is oblivious as well)

Tags: Intruder, Rape/Non-Con, Hypnosis, Mind Control

Pairings: Stiles, Scott, Derek/Intruder OMC, Stiles/Scott, Stiles/Derek

[Read The Drabble Factory from the beginning]

[ao3feed-scackson]

Ebony Arrow

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/KBU1ZuI by FallenSin Caleb Smoke is a complicated boy. two sides of a coin some would say. strong, powerful, charismatic on one side. on the other, Vulnerable, needing validation, submissive. His Best friends, Scott McCall and Stiles Stilinski have been friends with Caleb since he was fourteen years old, they know Caleb better than anyone and to Caleb these two are now his world. But Caleb hides a secret. between the ages of eight and ten his mother blessed him with great power at a terrible cost. Now, six years later Caleb uses that power to do what he does best. Hunt. What do you do when the ones you love push you away to keep you safe from a world you are already drenched deeply in? You fight their battles for them from the shadows that's what. Follow Caleb Smoke as he navigates this world of the supernatural, finding love, family, and home in the process. (I SUCK at Summary's, but hopefully this works XD) Words: 30164, Chapters: 4/?, Language: English Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M, Multi Characters: Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Stiles Stilinski, Jackson Whittemore, Ethan (Teen Wolf), Aiden (Teen Wolf), Original Male Character(s), Deucalion's Alpha Pack Members (Teen Wolf), Jennifer Blake (Teen Wolf), Derek Hale, Vernon Boyd, Erica Reyes, Isaac Lahey Relationships: Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/OMC, Jackson Whittemore/omc, Scott McCall/Jackson Whittemore, Ethan/OMC, Aiden/OMC, Aiden/Ethan (Teen Wolf), Stiles Stilinski/OMC Additional Tags: Gay Male Character, Fivesome - M/M/M/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Gay Sex, Barebacking, Breeding, Mpreg | Male Pregnancy, Fluff and Angst, Caleb is a good boy., Action & Romance, Gay Harem read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/KBU1ZuI

[ao3feed-peterstiles]

[Podfic of] The Stiles Watch

Read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/56161084 by LeadingLady3 "Yarnsome is Jackie's favorite store. Stiles is her favorite store owner and sometimes, maybe, potentially stalkee. Just a little. In a nice way. Really." [Podfic Version] Words: 11, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 3 of [Podfic of] Naughty Hookers (Swathed in Wool) Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/M, M/M Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale, Allison Argent, Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Cora Hale, Laura Hale, Derek Hale, Erica Reyes Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall/Kira Yukimura, Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski, OFC/OMC Additional Tags: Prompt Fic, Community: wishlist_fic, Original Character Protagonist - Freeform, Meet-Cute, Outsider's Perspective, POV Outsider, Fluff, crafting, Crochet, papercraft, Nerdery, Star Wars - Freeform, Yarn Hoarding, adorable idiots, Not Beta Read, Speculation, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes Read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/56161084

[darkjediqueen]

Flake

Title: FlakeFandom(s): Teen WolfRelationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/OMC (brief)Tags: Single Parent Derek, Getting Together,Warnings: No Warnings ApplySummary: Derek just wanted to date someone who didn’t flake on him.Word Count: 6,608Notes: Written for Full Moon Ficlet. For the prompt of Single Parent Fic from the Teen Wolf Bingo 2024.Beta: Grammarly Continue reading Flake

[fullmoonficlet]

MASTERLIST 558 - AFFAIR

Check out the fanworks created for the latest prompt: AFFAIR. Don't forget to express your appreciation by leaving a comment!

If you haven't already added your work to our collection on AO3, please feel free to add it to the collection for this prompt. If you have any questions about submitting, please leave us an ask to let us know.

Submissions are listed in order by word count. Please check the content notes and pairing for more information about each submission.

A latte, a Confession and a Phone Number by @otg2012 (FICLET, Jackson/Stiles, G, 972) Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Future, Original Characters, Fluff

Gut Feeling by @goddess47 (FIC, Gen, PG, 1950) Crossover with Shadowhunters; part of an ongoing story, may not stand alone.

Affair by @darkjediqueen (FIC, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, PG-13, 3896) Infidelity (Between OMC/Stiles)

[sapphireginger]

Chapter #17

Summary:

No, the demon took pleasure in breaking Stiles’s mind piece by piece. Such a young spark with no training or protections in place made for the perfect plaything. So, he turned his chaos inward. “Y-You’re not real,” Stiles says, his voice so soft it’s almost inaudible. “I-I defeated you!” The shadow sways and then smirks, the rotten teeth sharpening dangerously. “We cannot be defeated little boy. What threat are you to us? Us who has been alive since dawn of time? It is we who own you.”

June is the month Stiles dedicates entirely to his training. His Aunt Klarysa and his cousin Spencer work with him for hours every single day. Peter will often hang around in his full shift form, something he gained thanks to the mate bond and new alpha spark.

Stiles grimaces as the tree finally levitates to an upright position once more. Then he gets the wind knocked out of him as Spencer sweeps his feet out from under him. “FUCK!” he says through gritted teeth.

Spencer stands and offers his little cousin a hand. Stiles just shoves it away and shakes his head, pushing himself to his feet. He only sways a little before heading towards another tree. “Again.”

Klarysa lets him blow off some steam for a couple hours as she tells Peter her plan. He reluctantly doesn’t stop them when she directs an exhausted Stiles to walk with her.

As the spark and the Wrażliwy na aurę become mere specks in the distance, Spencer plops down onto the porch with no grace whatsoever. 

Peter tilts his head. “He’s not going to get better if he doesn’t find a way out of this whole mental state that he’s currently drowning in.”

Spencer quirks a brow and gulps in several gulps of air, said air filling his lungs over and over again. “Yeah. Well, that’s what mother is going to help with. He’s got all the raw ability that is limitless, but he’s just stuck. It happens to all magic users at some point.”

“I remember my mother’s emissary dealing with something of the same. Hers was more the loss of her husband and child in a car wreck. Nothing could be done about it. Her magic could not bring them back. If not for my mother, she might very well have killed herself to join them.”

“Lucky for her she had your mother then,” Spencer says quietly, his eyes focused on the direction in which the two magic users disappeared.

Peter tilts his head in a slight nod. “Indeed.”

✶ 🔎 ❤︎ 🔍 ✶ 

While Klarysa’s home seems rather isolated and very deep in a forest, there is another smaller cabin even deeper in that only she visits. The foliage is thick and disorienting. Not even the sun shines through. It’s not long before Stiles finds himself lost. He could’ve sworn she was right in front of him. His heart starts to beat faster as he spins around. “Ciocia Klarysa?”

There is no response and that’s when he starts to truly panic. Silence and darkness are his worst fears since the Nogitsune. Just as his vision starts to blur, he hears an echo in his mind. 

“Mieszko.”

“Ciocia Klarysa?” he chokes out and turns, trying to find the voice.

The trees begin to sway as a rough wind picks up. Stiles’s eyes go wide in terror as a shadow seemingly emerges from the trunk of a tree.

“Little Mieszko,” the shadow hisses. “So much fear. You should be afraid.”

Stiles steps back, his eyes never leaving the one who still haunts him even now years after the possession. He remembers every second of being a puppet. Though they at first believed he would start killing other people, that is not what happened.

No, the demon took pleasure in breaking Stiles’s mind piece by piece. Such a young spark with no training or protections in place made for the perfect plaything. So, he turned his chaos inward.

“Y-You’re not real,” Stiles says, his voice so soft it’s almost inaudible. “I-I defeated you!”

The shadow sways and then smirks, the rotten teeth sharpening dangerously. “We cannot be defeated little boy. What threat are you to us? Us who has been alive since dawn of time? It is we who own you.”

Something about the statement shocks Stiles out of his terror for a few precious moments. His hand brushes over his mating mark. “No.” He doesn’t raise his voice, simply saying the one word but that one word makes the shadow angry even as it stills completely. Stiles smiles as a few stray tears slip down his cheeks. “I love my mate. I love Peter and he loves me.” 

The shadow laughs, sending shivers down Stiles’s spine. “No one in their right mind could love you! Then again, no one ever said that the wolf was in his right mind. Regardless, he may be your mate, but you belong to us!” it hisses.

“I belong to my mate, and he belongs to me,” Stiles says, his smile shifting into a smirk, “...but there is no ownership. We are equals. No one owns me.”

This time, when the wind grows rougher, it’s accompanied by burning amethyst orbs, shining from the place where amber eyes normally reside. 

“We are not afraid of you, Little Mieszko,” the being says with a smile befitting a serial killer, slasher and psycho all at once. It makes Stiles shiver. “We know what it is that makes you scream. Do you wonder what it is that makes us scream? You do not scare us. You are nothing to us. We are not scared of you.”

Stiles smirks darkly, a hint of fang showing as a black wisp of smoke joined by three more rises up behind him. “Pity. You should be terrified.”

He brings his hand up and tilts his head consideringly. The wind is now knocking the shadow around while Stiles himself remains steadfast. Between one breath and the next a blood curdling shriek, a chorus of hisses and a burning white light erupt. Stiles doesn’t look away as he speaks. 

“Non timeo te amplius. Abite compedes Nogitsune chaos. Ego me liberavi.”

With those words, the shadow explodes outward and then is sucked in like a vacuum, before becoming nothing. Though his breath is slightly labored Stiles feels like a chain, shackle and lock have been broken. He grabs at his chest, sucking in deep breaths. “I-I did it.” He laughs wetly.

A look around finds him still clueless as to where he is, but a tree looks slightly different. Maybe that’s the way. “Ciocia Klarysa?” 

He takes a step forward only to once again freeze at the sound of another presence, a voice that has haunted his nightmares. “Hello Little rabbit.”

Stiles trembles, his hands forming fists as his nails dig into his palms. The pain and slight cuts, bringing blood to the surface, ground him. “Don’t call me that!” he snaps, his tone dripping with icy venom.

The alpha wolf, now a mere shadow but resulting in rising terror nonetheless, stalks closer. “We didn’t get to finish our little game. You’re so powerful little rabbit. I want that in a mate.”

“I have a mate!” Stiles spits. “He has claimed me, and I’ve claimed him. So, you can f-fuck off!”

“Don’t be scared little rabbit. I’ll make it good for you.”

Stiles shudders and takes a step back. He remembers the attack like it was yesterday. The fear and helplessness he felt consumed him, threatening to do so now. He can hear the wolf getting closer but unlike last time, something within him bursts open and with a simple look, he constricts the wolf’s airways.

Clawed hands clutch at the shadowed throat, but Stiles tightens his grip. With another thought, the wolf rises into the air, his feet scrambling to keep upright. It’s no use though as a white fire erupts in a never ending sphere around him. 

A dark smirk forms on the spark’s face as Stiles wills the sphere to grow smaller and smaller, He relishes in the shrieks of pain the wolf lets out, accompanied by high pitched howls of agony.

The spark is not unfeeling, but he knows that some threats cannot live. Though both the Nogitsune and the wolf are but of the shadows now, they still reside inside him. They have been keeping him from all that he is destined to be. He faced one foe and as the sphere closes the final few millimeters of space, there’s another burst of light. Stiles once again, doesn’t look away.

Though his breath is even more labored now, Stiles feels a second chain, shackle and lock break inside him. His eyes flutter shut as a heat so all encompassing washes over him. It floods every fiber of his being. His fingers spark, his muscles thrum with energy and his bond sings.

The spark falls to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably as a feeling he’s never felt before, overtakes him. He manages to press his hand against his chest and rub, feeling a pleasant reaction from his spark. The four black shadow wisps slip back into him until they are needed again. He sinks both hands into the earth as he hangs his head.

“Liber. Liber sum. Liberavi me. Omnia, quæ ego sum, fregi vincula. Non tenebar amplius tenebris et umbra. Ego enim sum tenebrae. lux sum. Nam umbra sum. Ego sum scintilla.”

✶ 🔎 ❤︎ 🔍 ✶ 

Stiles has no concept of time only coming out of his thoughts when a soft caress alerts him to another presence. He’s not afraid as he opens his eyes. For a moment he thinks it’s his aunt but then a slight glow forms around the being of light and he sucks in a harsh breath. “Matka.”

Klaudiya smiles and presses a warm kiss to his forehead. She is not really here but she is never far away either. For a few precious minutes she holds her son, imparting the warmth of her own magic. She silently erases the very last essence of tragedy from her son’s aura, the stain her death left behind on the chłopak.

Another kiss is placed on his forehead, Stiles’s eyes slipping closed at the caress. From behind his eyelids, he sees the light begin to dim before diminishing completely. She’s gone.

✶ 🔎 ❤︎ 🔍 ✶ 

“Mieszko,” a voice calls softly.

Stiles’s eyes flutter open, meeting his aunt’s gaze. “You planned this.” It’s not a question because he knows she did.

“I did, słodki siostrzeniec. You would not have been able to thrive. Your spark would not have thrived either, if you did not face that which has wrought pain and darkness into your life.”

“I bound myself. Didn’t I?” he asks, despite being certain the answer is yes.

Klarysa nods. “Through no intentional fault of your own. It was a fear response.”

Stiles huffs and slowly stands, surprised and yet not when he finds them sitting in the cabin. “How?”

“You tell me, Mieszko. How did I do it?” she asks.

“The cleansing you did when we met that first day of classes. You didn’t get rid of the darkness. You kept it. You knew I would have to face it and today you made sure I did.”

She gives him a proud smile even as her expression is slightly sad. “I did. I do not want you to suffer but suffering is how we learn. The past will always follow us. This is fact and fate entwined. However, when we face the past head on with nothing but will and resolve and wiara… We find out what defines our strength.”

Stiles swallows thickly as he listens. He acknowledges and accepts the past. He accepts and treasures the gift of the present. The spark treasures, appreciates and hopes for the future. “Twoja lekcja została dobrze odrobiona.”

Klarysa smiles. “Thank you, Spark,” she says with pearl colored eyes. Then she leans forward slightly. “Tell me what you have learned.” Her tone is encouraging as she watches him mull over her question.

Stiles chews his lip, his body surprisingly still. “Each event is a shadow. The bigger the event the bigger the shadow but the ability to face it and come out victorious has always been there. I just needed to realize and comprehend it. The past cannot be ignored but once faced loses its hold. It will never be gone but its strength and its power are only defined by the weight we give them.”

“Aye, słodki siostrzeniec. You are only limited by your belief in your will. So long as you believe, none can hope to stop you or stand against you. Well done.”

There isn’t much to say and Stiles finds the silence is comfortable, the need to fill it nearly non-existent. The only thing needing to be said is: “Dziękuję.”

A soft smile comes from his aunt as she nods, pouring them each a cup of tea. “Nie ma za co.”

✶ 🔎 ❤︎ 🔍 ✶ 

When Peter and Stiles leave after dinner, the wolf can tell something happened to his mate. He is dying to know but isn’t going to pester the spark for answers. Peter can scent the amusement on his mate along with the slight amusement bleeding through their bond.

It’s not until they’re washing dishes—Peter drying and Stiles washing—that the subject is finally broached. “I did it.” Stiles's voice is soft, and he keeps his eyes on the soapy water.

“Did what?” the wolf asks, his tone just as soft as his mate’s.

“Faced the shadows.”

“Shadows?” Peter intones confused.

Stiles nods as he finishes washing the last glass. “Mhm. Shadows of my past but I didn’t just face them.” Amber eyes flash amethyst and a bright grin is sent Peter's way. “I defeated them. I destroyed them. I ended them.”

Something like bone deep and soul deep want consumes Peter at his mate’s words. Stiles seems to be of the same mind as the wolf and they leave a trail of ripped clothing all the way to the bedroom. This time Stiles takes his mate for the first time and by the time they’ve both cum, Peter is incoherent, only able to rumble in his chest. Stiles offers his own purr—almost catlike—in reply as they lazily kiss until they fall asleep.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 6

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 6k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You go full Charlie Kelly and start to put all the pieces together. Stiles knows more than he lets on, but for some reason you trust him anyway. 

A/N: check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Taglist: @eaterof-concrete, @m30wk1ttycat

You played and replayed the video at least a hundred times, over and over again, examining every poorly shot, grainy frame until your eyes burned. You were frantic—a rabbit, picking her den apart, ripping her fur out, searching for all the minute flaws and misplaced straw; a girl, chewing her cheek bloody, tearing at her tights, desperately looking for some kind of explanation that wouldn’t completely shatter her fragile grasp on reality. 

It would be one thing if it was just the video. You could easily rationalize the video away; you’d seen enough fan-made edits of Buffy and Twilight to know that amateur editors were hardly amateurs anymore—but it wasn’t just the video. It was the video, and the gutted video clerk, and the mangled bus driver, and the severed woman with wolf fibers found her butchered corpse—all interconnected by one very furry, clawed, fanged… thing. 

Rolling onto your back, you scrubbed at your eyes, fingers cruel and violent in their attempt to scour away images of blood, and death, and monsters. There had to be an explanation. A rational explanation. Your gaze reflexively drifted towards the charm bundle on your windowsill, propped up against a few of your favorite novels.

The books were old, spines creased and splitting at the corners from little fingers and a lot of love. They were your mom’s before they were yours; you read them together under the covers whenever it rained. For a long time, you kept them hidden away under your bed with all the other things that might crumble your brittle will, but the yellowing pages steeped in memories didn’t seem so haunting anymore. You were already halfway through the stack, consuming the faded ink like a fiend in the night. It was odd; there wasn’t much that had changed since now and then. Really, only one thing. It made sense, you supposed after some thought. Your childhood favorites: Nancy Drew, Sherlock Holmes, the Hercule Poirot novels, they were exactly the kind of thing a sheriff’s son would appreciate.

The largest book in the pile was your complete collection of Sherlock Holmes. You chewed on your lip, eyes tracing the elegant swoops and swirls illuminated on the spine. Words curled along your brainstem in time with the loops, breaking through the buzzing in your mind with quiet British flourish: When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

Your nose scrunched, bottom lip trapped between your teeth. Surely, you hadn’t eliminated all logical explanations yet. Surely. 

The metallic embellishments glinted at you, taunting you with their unmistakable presence and insistent reminder of your evening’s unavoidable ending. There was only one place to go for the improbable, after all; you just had to get past your pride and everything you believed to be true. 

Before you could finish putting on your shoes, your dad found his way into your room. He lingered on the border of the black cherry floor. His stance was awkward, unsure of his footing, and you froze with your shoelace in hand. After a moment of stilted silence, he cleared his throat and loosened his tie from its chafing Windsor knot, “I just wanted to let you know I’ll be out later than usual.”

Nodding, you tied your laces into neat bows and pulled the wrinkles in your tights straight, “Parent Teacher Conferences, right?”

“Mhm,” he paused and attempted a smile. The edges were stiff, as if his mouth had forgotten the movement, at least when directed at you, “Should I be worried?”

It was his attempt at a joke; you knew that. You still felt a flutter of anxiety. Despite Stiles’s reassurances, you weren't so cavalier about breaking the rules. “All A’s,” you finally said, quietly to your feet. 

Your dad gave you a real smile; smaller than his previous attempt at playfulness, but this one was your favorite. He was proud. It’d been a long time since he’d looked at you with anything other than grief and unease. “That’s my girl.” He rapped his knuckles against your door frame and said, “There’s takeout money on the table. Don’t stay out too long; there’s a—”

“Curfew, I know.” You slung your bag over your shoulder and fiddled with the strap, “I’ll be back soon.”

He didn’t ask you where you were going. He never did. You weren't sure what that said about your relationship, but you didn’t want to think about it any longer than you had to. There were far more pressing things to dwell on.

Maggie was in her kitchen when you opened the door to her house. It was cozy, small; she'd inherited it from her mother when she passed years ago. There were still signs of her 70s nostalgia all over every room. The shag carpet was horrendous, but you kind of liked the color. The muted green almost looked like a bed of moss, like something out of a fairytale.  You had your own key; you’d had one since you were old enough to be a latchkey kid—even though you were never really on your own for long. There was always someone around to help you with your homework, bake you brownies without getting shell in the batter, read you stories about far away places and imaginary worlds. You’d had a wonderful childhood until it ended; some people weren’t that lucky. You knew that you were fortunate to have twelve years of Rockwellian bliss; it was more than a lot of people got. Knowing, however, still didn’t make the after any easier. 

“Want a scone?” Maggie’s head was buried in the oven, steam curling around her shoulders. She emerged with a tray of browned lumps in pink oven-mitted hands, “They're slightly burnt, but it’s not my fault. My timer betrayed me.”

You didn’t reply. You chewed on your lip and studied the plants hanging from the ceiling. The Angelica was in full bloom, little clusters of white fuzzy fireworks. The roots were supposed to ward off evil. You would’ve scoffed at the thought a week ago. Now, there was a lingering ‘what if’ you couldn’t shake. 

You sighed quietly, the exhaustion rattling through your chest, and trailed your gaze to the next plant. Skullcaps were your favorite, not because they were supposed to induce visions, obviously; you liked the blossoms. The fluted periwinkle petals certainly looked magical. You picked a flower from the lowest stem and rolled it between your fingers, “You really believe in this shit, right?” You looked up from your hands and studied Maggie’s face carefully, “It’s not all a scam?”

The anticipated gasp carried through the kitchen, followed by the clang of a plonked baking sheet, “I resent the very implication.”

“I’m serious.” You stared at Maggie’s back, watching for any tell-tale signs of tension or rigidity, “Do you really believe that witches are real and wolfsbane can kill werewolves?”

“I will not be abused in my own home,” there was a lilt in Maggie’s voice, a flippancy that usually made your lips twitch into a smile, but Maggie's hand trembled and sent the scone on the edge of her spatula to the floor. Maggie dropped to her knees and scooped the crumbling pieces into a pile with desperate hands, oddly frantic for something as silly as a dropped pastry. 

You squatted next to her and rested your hands over Maggie’s until they stilled. “Mags,” you were quiet, gentle in your sweeping, but Maggie didn’t seem soothed by the clean floor. 

Maggie’s chin lifted, but her eyes zeroed in on the tip of your nose instead of your eyes. “Babe.”

You gripped your knees, clinging to the caps with ragged nails and flexed knuckles, like your bones were the only solid thing left in the room. “Can you be serious for once in your life, please.” Your tongue went heavy, adhering to the floor of your mouth, effectively sealing everything else you couldn’t bring yourself to say: Please, I think I’m losing my mind, and I don’t know how much longer I can white-knuckle it.  

Maggie turned towards the counter carelessly, and her pinky brushed against the cookie sheet. She let out a sharp hiss through her teeth and shook her hand in the air. “Why does it matter?” Her words were muffled through the blistering finger in her mouth, “People buy what they want to buy.”

Your empathy was thinning and so was your patience. Your teeth gnashed, and you winced when your tongue got in the way. “I don’t give a shit about your delusional customers. You know what I mean.”

“See, ‘delusional,’” Maggie stuffed a scone into her mouth even though it was still steaming. Her eyes watered as she struggled to swallow the wad of blueberry and oatmeal lodged against the roof of her mouth. “Why are we even talking about this?” she said thickly, throat clogged with congealed crumbs and something skittish in her eyes. She bent over the sink and turned the water to cold; you weren't entirely sure if she was soothing the burns on her tongue or simply avoiding eye contact.

“There’s something happening here,” your voice trembled, much to your disdain, and you were further horrified by the stinging in your tear ducts, “and I don’t know what to do.”

Maggie’s head whipped towards you, wetting her hair and splattering her lenses with water droplets that dripped onto her nose, “You don’t have to do anything. That’s not your job.” She clutched your shoulders with desperate fingers, digging into your scapulae until it hurt, “Your job is to go to school, get good grades, and live happily ever after.”

You shook off her hands and wiped your nose against your shoulder, “Why won’t you just give me a straight answer?” 

“Well, I am bi–”

“Maggie,” you struggled for words until there was only one left on your tongue, “please.”

A blank expression fell over her face, and then Maggie seemed to sink through the floor even though she was still standing. “Did you read the book?”

You could barely hear her. Your nose shriveled towards your brows, “What book?”

Her eyes shined with something; you couldn’t quite define it. There was a glimmer of remorse, but you couldn’t make out the rest. “‘Beacon Hills’ Bloodlines’.”

For a moment, you were too confused to be frustrated, “Not really.”

Confusion became bewilderment when Maggie left the kitchen without a word. She returned with a thick book; though, book wasn’t quite accurate. It was really a stack of pulp parchment barely held together with a piece of threaded twine. It looked older than the Bloodline’s journal; you could see a few pages sticking out from the others, and the spine was in desperate need of re-stitching. You reluctantly took the pages from Maggie’s hands after she shook it in your face a couple times. 

Maggie was quiet when she finally spoke, “Read the journal.” She nodded towards the new book, “That too.”

You frowned at the cover and held it out in front of you like it was contaminated. “Why are you being so weird about this? Just tell me.”

Maggie looked at you, and the most peculiar sensation rolled down your spine. Maggie's eyes were so present, like a shotgun blast, like a meteor shower. Her voice wasn’t even close to loud, but it was just as piercing as her stare, “I made a promise; I have to keep at least part of it.”

Your forehead creased, “Wha...that’s even weirder. Are you fuckin’ Gandalf? Just say it.” 

“Trust me,” Maggie’s gaze shifted to the floor, and you almost melted with relief, “there are some things that you’re better off not knowing.”

“Great. Thanks, Obi-Wan,” you rolled your eyes and crammed the bound parchment into your bag, “I’ll figure it out myself.”

A cool hand cupped your cheek before you could leave. You grudgingly met Maggie’s gaze, adjusting your grip on the strap of your bag.  

Maggie held onto your shoulders, a breath away from shaking you. “Promise me, you won’t do anything stupid.”

You grimaced, “I–” A flash in Maggie’s eyes dried all the words on your tongue.

“Promise.”

“Promise,” you mumbled.

Maggie finally let you leave, and your feet felt heavier than they did when you walked into Maggie’s apartment. Your bag was heavier, so perhaps it wasn’t all an illusion. The guilt, however, was certainly playing a part in your sagging shoulders. You chewed on a thumbnail and slipped into the comfort of denial. It didn’t count as a broken promise if you didn’t really know what you were promising.

Your dad was still gone when you got home, and you were relieved. Solitude was your only comfort with all this dread chilling your blood. You weren't good with the unpredictable, not anymore. You tried to study it, the way you did with dead languages and theoretical physics, but the methodology wasn't clear. You just wished, for once, you were as scary as people believed. 

There was one thing you could do—or rather two. One was on your desk, and the other was at the bottom of your bag. 

You started with the journal, and your hair quickly became a nuisance. Every time you bowed your head to get a better look at the messy scrawl, wispy strands obscured your vision. You tied your hair back and nibbled on your lip, struggling to determine if a smudged loop was an ‘a’ or an ‘o.’ They didn’t have computers in the 1800s, you knew that, but it wouldn’t have killed Maggie’s great-great-great-grandmother to quill with a little less ink. Neat cursive was hardly as taxing as cholera. 

The pain at the base of your skull was unbearable by the time you made it through half of the entries. Your impatience was rapidly fraying, with yourself and with the lack of insight. Maybe, this was all an elaborate stall—or maybe Maggie really didn’t know anything. 

You flopped back against your pillows and starfished your limbs across your bed until all your joints and muscles unkinked. “Fuck me.” Your eyes flicked down your legs, and you glowered at the journal. It was goading you, opened to the middle and sprawled across your thighs, staring at you and all your incompetence. 

Your thumbs dug a trench in your skull as you tried to rub the throbbing out of your temples.

One more page. You could read one more page. 

You flipped the page, careful with the crumbling corner. The parchment was cluttered with names and arrows; there were a few illustrations too, sketched portraits of the people memorialized on paper. It was inked chaos, but only one word stood out to you. In a large curling script, Hale was spread all over the complicated family tree. You gnawed on your lip and bent your head closer to the small description at the top of the page: The Hale pack founded Beacon Hills in 1856, saving the town from desolation with their wealth. The pack has several branches, extending across the state. They continue to be a prevalent force in their world. 

The bloodlines were difficult to follow with all the different branches and untimely deaths. As far as you could tell, the line was documented all the way to 2002. There were a few different sets of handwriting; the style changed every few decades or so, and you flipped to the end of the family line just to check for Maggie’s chicken scratch. You didn’t find her handwriting, but you did notice something familiar on the last line. Derek Hale. 

You knew, of course, that Derek would likely be included, but your breath hitched when your finger traced over the notation inscribed next to almost every single one of his family members’ names: Deceased: Arson. Laura Hale was still alive on the tree, and the thought of documenting her death—of giving her an end date —it stole all the air from your lungs. 

Your eyes burned, and you quickly flipped back to the start of the Hale bloodline. A few dozen county death records later, the burning in your corneas was due to the strain of one too many computer searches. Still painful, but you much preferred blue light sting to the threat of tears. You focused on it, on the ache; it was so much quieter than all the thoughts fighting you for their turn. They were so loud, a million ravenous locusts buzzing, feasting on your ear canal. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, what they were trying to tell you—what they wanted you to believe. 

Derek Hale couldn’t be a werewolf because that would mean werewolves were real, and if werewolves were real, how many other monsters were lurking in the dark? How many creatures from Maggie’s stories were waiting for someone to separate from the herd, biding their time until they could sink their teeth into human flesh?

There was only so much you could find online and in Maggie’s books. Certain secrets had yet to be written. 

It was disturbingly easy to find out where Stiles lived. The receptionist at the Sheriff’s station was all too happy to give you his address when you gave her your name. You finally stumbled upon the one perk of being an infamous, pathetic half-orphan: blind faith. 

His house was smaller than yours, and you were jealous. All the empty space just made the silence worse, you found. You could see a few spots where the paint was peeling when you got closer, and you smiled at the shoddy patch work. You wondered who tried to fix it. You hoped it was Stiles; you could see the paint in his hair, maybe smeared across his cheek from an ill-advised attempt to scratch his nose. It was adorable. 

You knocked on the door and clutched Maggie’s books tighter to your chest. You’d expected Stiles to answer the door, but he didn’t. You didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to you that someone else would be home until Sheriff Stilinski opened the door, but you felt stupid for not thinking of it sooner. The Sheriff looked just as surprised to see you; at least, he had an actual reason. 

“Oh.” You blinked and devolved into a monosyllabic moron, “Hi.” 

Obviously, you knew Stiles was Sheriff Stilinski’s son, but for some reason the idea of them occupying the same place at the same time was dumbfounding. YOur mind couldn’t make sense of it. There was the Sheriff in one box, with all your grief, all your pain, and then there was Stiles. You didn’t fully know what was in his box, but you knew it was good. 

“Hey, kid,” Sheriff Stilinski smiled through his confusion, “you okay? Did something—”

“I’mheretoseeStiles,” all your words were smooshed together in one big exhale. 

The Sheriff looked even more confused for a moment, and then he gave you a little conspiratorial grin. “He’s up in his room. Go ahead.” 

You nodded absently and followed him inside. You stopped thinking about the hefty pile of books in your arms when you noticed the slight limp in Sheriff Stilinski’s step. “Are you okay?” 

The Sheriff followed your gaze and waved his hand, “It’s nothing. Barely a scratch.” 

You hesitated at the foot of the stairs, looking for blood or something equally horrific. He had no reason to lie to you, but you’d gotten used to the worst case scenario. “You sure?”

The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened with his smile, “You sound like my son.”

You mouth ticked up slightly, “That’s not an answer.”

Sheriff Stilinski had a nice laugh, you thought. You grinned as his head shook with another rumbling chuckle. “Now you really sound like my son. I hope he hasn’t driven crazy too.”

“Eh,” you shrugged a little and smiled, “he’s alright.” Your voice dropped a little, like you were telling a secret, “More than, actually. He’s…good.”

The Sheriff looked surprised briefly, a spasm of disbelief, and then all the muscles in his face seemed to melt with fondness. “He is,” his voice was a bit gravelly when he spoke, like it got lodged halfway up his throat. He loved his son; it was obvious. You wondered if your dad ever looked like that when talked about you. You wondered if he even talked about you at all. 

“Not a lot of people are,” you said quietly, looking down at your sneakers. The white wasn’t even white anymore. They were graying from years of stepping on your own feet, kicking car doors closed, tripping over asphalt. You weren't the kind of girl who could keep shoes clean; that was one thing about you that hadn’t changed. Sometimes, it felt like everything else had, and none of it was for the better. 

Sheriff Stilinski waited until you looked up, and then he smiled at you, almost as fondly as before. “You are.”

You were overwhelmed with feeling, so close to an emotion you couldn’t name, but you knew you’d felt it before. Once upon a time, when parents were parents, and children were children. 

The Sheriff rested his hand on your shoulder and squeezed. You were tipping into tearful, and you’d never been so grateful to hear Stiles’s voice. 

“Dad, who’s—” Stiles stopped at the top of the stairs and stared at the two of you. His jaw dangled, and it didn’t snap shut until his dad snorted. Stiles’s eye twitched, and you could see the reboot loading behind his eyes. You wholly understood the sentiment.

His brain regained function, and apparently all he could come up with was, “Hey.”

You grinned to yourself, a small secret smile at his predicament, and your hand cocked in a little wave, “Hey.”

Sheriff Stilinski cleared his throat, “I’ll—I’m going to get something to eat.” Neither of you looked at him; you were too busy playing a strange staring contest with equally stupid looks on your faces.  

Stiles recovered from his stupor once you were alone. His face settled into something bitter, stony at all the edges, irritation tucked into the creases. It was hardly the face you expected to see when you finally paid him a surprise visit. 

Your brow curved, and you tried not to shrink in on yourself. “You look pissed.”

Stiles snorted and drummed his fingers against the railing, “Yeah, well, you’re in a perpetual state of pissiness, so we’ve all got problems.” You must have crumpled this time, at least a little bit, because his scowl thawed and his hands fell limply by his sides. “Sorry. That’s not—displaced aggression, it’s my sweet spot.”

You shrugged and smiled slightly, a little stiff, a lot amused, “You’re not exactly wrong.”

“Still.” 

You played another game of eye-contact chicken, and Stiles scratched the back of his rapidly flushing neck. Your hair, still damp from the light drizzle, fell in front of your face as you tilted your head towards the stairs, “So, you gonna invite me up, or…”

He nodded a little too quickly and definitely too fervently, “Yeah, sorry. I’m just—”

“Pissed?” you smirked and adjusted your grip on your books, trekking up the stairs. Stiles narrowed his eyes at you, but he was smiling. He had a nice smile; it was big, loose—unrestrained in a way a lot of people were afraid to be. It was the kind of smile you couldn’t help but return.

Stiles let out a profound sigh and shook his head, “It’s all Scott’s fault.” You shot him a dubious look as he pushed his bedroom door open for you. He shrugged, “If I only tell it with carefully selected parts of the story, it’s all his fault.”

Your mouth twitched. Your smile was small, but it peeled back a good deal of the person you thought you should be. So much so, there was a little you peeking underneath. “We can pretend it is. Just for today.”

Stiles’s throat bobbed with his swallow, and when he smiled back at you, slowly, fleetingly, but ever-so sweetly, you finally realized you were awkwardly standing in the middle of his room. Like an idiot. 

His room was exactly what you expected, and that was…you didn’t realize that you knew him well enough to expect plaid bedding and posters of cringey emo bands that were heavily featured on most of your playlists. 

His desk was cluttered with various books and papers, stacked with no apparent rhyme or reason. You recognized the bestiary he bought from Curio Killed the Cat; the burgundy and gold binding was striking against all his monochrome textbooks. There were a few papers poking out from the aged pages, printouts of something furry and familiar. Before you could get a better look, Stiles bustled past you, doing a quick but rather poor job of hiding his dirty laundry under his bed and behind his closet door. 

Stiles was slightly out of breath when he finished, dropping onto the foot of his bed, “So…you stalkin’ me now?” 

You rested your hip against his desk and hummed, “Seemed only fair.” 

“Well,” his face split into a bright, infuriating grin, “I am flattered.”

“Shut up.” His grin widened, and you rolled your eyes, glaring at your bowed reflection in a chrome lamp on the edge of his desk. It was in grave need of a good dusting, along with most of the room. “You’re literally my only option.”

“So, you’re sayin’ I’m the one.” Stiles’s smirk was audible, and you sputtered. 

Your ears were unnaturally hot, and so was the back of your neck. You meant to groan, wanted him to know just how unamusing you found him, but your throat failed you. Your complaint came out airy, huffy, and it trembled against your soft palate. Truthfully, it sounded awfully similar to a whine; you scowled at the sound and squeezed your books tighter to your chest, “I’m leaving. Right now. I’ve reached my maximum capacity for bullshit.” 

Long fingers circled around your wrist before you could go too far. They were blistering against your cool skin, but a shiver shuddered through your arm all the way to your skull. 

“Don’t go,” Stiles hummed softly, close enough to warm the shell of your ear. “I owe you one, remember?” 

You braved a look at him through your lashes, and he was smiling at you again; this one was nervous. He had forgotten, it seemed, to let go of your wrist until now. Stiles sat back down on his bed, and you absently brushed your fingers over the lingering sensation of his fingertips. 

“Right,” you looked around the room and chewed on your bottom lip, “so…what was that whole thing with Derek Hale?”

Stiles paused. You could feel him watching you, studying you like one of his puzzles. “He needed a ride.”

You set your books on his desk, and Stiles nodded towards the chair in front of him. You hesitated before sitting down, feeling a bit like you were giving up the battlefield high ground, “You’re like…friends, then?”

“Absolutely not.” If the emphatic denial wasn’t enough to convince you, the violent shake of his head was telling enough. “Kind of wish he was dead, actually. It would solve so many problems.”

“So you don’t actually know him that well,” you murmured, sinking into the chair with all your hopes and plans. 

Stiles’s neck craned as he studied your face, “Why?” You just looked at him, keeping your face impassive, and his eyes went a little buggy. “I know he looks dreamy, but that would be nothing but a nightmare for everyone involved. Trust me.”

Your face twisted, lips curling around the unsavory taste in your mouth. “I don’t—what was wrong with him yesterday?”

Stiles didn’t look entirely convinced, but skepticism did look a lot like concern. “Stomach bug.”

You rolled your eyes. It would’ve made you laugh under any other circumstance, but you didn’t feel much like laughing now. You’d been a tick away from the edge ever since you realized that Lydia had been this close to being butchered by that thing. 

Your fingers curled into tight fists, knuckles straining, “I’m not an idiot, okay. I know there’s something weird going on.” You looked up from your lap with sharp eyes, but if he looked a little closer, he’d see the desperation underneath, “And I know you know something about it.”

Stiles swallowed hard and twisted his fingers together, “I’m actually known for knowing nothing about anything. Ever.” 

He flinched when you stood up abruptly. The chair rolled back into his desk and sent a few pencils to the floor. You glared at them, like they did it on purpose just to spite you, and your glower drifted towards the glint of citrine and garnet on the corner of his desk. “This.” You picked up the bestiary and tried to shake it in front of his face, but it was too heavy to do your frustration justice, “Why did you buy this?”

His eyes, miraculously, grew rounder, “I told you. D—”

“N’ D, I know, but I looked into it. This is real; it’s transcribed from a real Ancient Greek text.”

“...I like authenticity.” Stiles shrugged towards his fidgeting hands, “I take my craft seriously.”

Scoffing, you dropped the book on top of his bed, “So you’re saying you believe the whole mountain lion theory?” 

“Well, obviously no—”

“Then what do you believe?” Your chest seethed with quick shallow breaths as you paced from one side of his room to the other, “Because I was looking through this genealogy line, and the Hales have been here before Beacon Hills was even Beacon Hills, and there’s a pattern of—hold on.” 

You snatched Maggie’s journal off of his desk and flipped it open to the Hale family tree, bookmarked with the thick stack of county death reports you’d printed out. “Look, there’s a series of premature, violent deaths in their line directly after a series of animal attacks on the town, and then all of it just stopped a few generations before Derek’s mom became the head of the pa—”

You didn’t know when Stiles stood up, but he was in front of you now, stopping you in your tracks. He brushed his fingers through his short crop of hair and shook his head, “Hold on, okay. Take a breath—”

You didn’t hear him, not really. Truthfully, you didn’t even notice that he’d started talking. You shoved the pages closer to his face, and all your words rushed past your lips in one carved out breath, “And then it all started again after Laura Hale was killed, and she was found with wolf fibers on her body—”

Stiles’s brows flew towards his hairline, “How do you kno—”

“She became the head of the family after Talia died, right?” Your hair was as wild as your eyes after a series of urgent tugging, and you prayed to all the mythical gods in every game you’d ever played that you sounded saner than you looked. They might actually exist, after all. Who's to say that Selûne didn't exist in a world where werewolves did? “‘Cause she’s the oldest living, fully conscious relative, and then immediately after she's killed, the animal attacks start up again, like she was keeping something in-check.”

“Slow down.” Stiles gripped your shoulders. You were closer than either of you realized until you looked up and your noses were almost touching. He swallowed thickly and let go of you after a moment, taking a step back, “A couple of days ago you thought this was all bullshit.”

You chewed on your lip and your indecision, looking for something in his face. You didn’t know what, but you were pretty sure you found it when his mouth furrowed into a concerned frown. It was for you, you realized, not because of you. That was…a rarity in your life as of late. You didn’t hate it. 

Sighing, you pulled your phone out of your jacket pocket and opened the video from Lydia’s phone. “A couple of days ago I hadn't seen this,” you mumbled, shoving the phone into his hand.

Stiles looked at you for a moment longer and then pressed play. His face was unreadable, save for the small flinch when the beast shattered the store window, and you hated it. “Where did you get this?” Stiles finally said quietly. His voice was low and infected with something dire. 

You rifled through your papers, something to keep your hands busy and your eyes off of the dark look on Stiles’s face, “Someone sent it to Lydia—it was a blocked number, so don’t ask who.”

“Did she—”

“I deleted it before she could.” 

Neither of you needed to say it; you both knew Lydia was clinging to sanity by the skin of her perfect teeth. She couldn’t see the proof that the monster under her bed was real. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

“Good.” Stiles rubbed a hand over his face, looking so much older than sixteen, and he flickered his gaze to your face, “You can’t show this to anyone. You know that, right?”

“Besides Scott,” you retorted dryly.

Stiles almost smiled. There was a ghost of one hiding in the corners of his mouth, but it faded before it could materialize. “Believe me, he really doesn’t need any more proof. Delete it.” 

He sighed at your scowl and tried again, “Please delete it.”

You shook your head and grabbed your phone from his hands, “Not until you tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything.” Stiles held up his hands and took a careful step towards you, “Really. I know as much as you do.”

You stared at him. You weren't sure if you were a good judge of character. You’d like to think you were, but it wasn’t like you spent a lot of time around other people. Even before you got trapped in your head, you really only had one friend, and you used to think you’d be friends with her for the rest of your lives. Maybe longer. 

You’d been wrong before. You didn’t want to be wrong again.

Stiles reached for your hand, and you let him lace your fingers together. “I know how you feel. It sucks, and it’s kind of exciting, but mostly freakin’ terrifying—and all you need to know is that it’s going to be okay. Okay?”

Your chin jerked in a rigid little nod. You softened slightly when he squeezed your hand. He wasn’t telling you everything; you were almost 100% certain of that, but you were also pretty sure he wasn’t lying. That was enough for you. For now. 

“The file room,” you said quietly.

Stiles’s lips drew together into a little pucker, “What?”

“The evidence room with all the files,” you looked up at him, and the ember of hope was stoked in your eyes, “there’s probably more there.”

He bit down on his cheek, “I don’t know—”

You folded her arms over her chest, chin lifting in defiance, “You promised.”

Stiles sighed and ran his hand over his head. His smile was a little affectionate thing. He sighed and shook his head, “I promised.”

“Well, alright then.” Your shoulders relaxed, and you sat back down in his desk chair, “Middle of the night break-in, it’s a date.”

[sterek-ao3feed-archive]

Bang Bang

https://archiveofourown.org/works/50073661 by zwatchtowerz (TheSpark) Mafia Boss Mr. Hale has an encounter with Beacon Hills Police Department. Not the best day at work. Extract: "It was a game at this point, where he never was able to catch Derek, and in return, the Hales never killed a deputy, even if they deserved it. Today, anyhow, wasn't the day." Words: 1645, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 6 of From Amino to AO3 Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Additional Tags: Minor OMC - Freeform, Mafia Boss Derek Hale, Deputy Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe, Adult Stiles Stilinski, Rich Hale Family (Teen Wolf), The Hale Family Lives (Teen Wolf), Werewolves are Somewhat Known, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, ignore all the inconsistencies, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author should be sleeping read it on AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/50073661

[ao3-feed-sterek]

Love Conquers Death

by LnZ13

The Hales meet an ancestor from over a thousand years ago to help them with their hunter problem.

Words: 1017, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV)

Rating: Not Rated

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: OMCs, Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Jordan Parrish, Vernon Boyd, Erica Reyes, Isaac Lahey, Corey Bryant (Teen Wolf), Liam Dunbar, Mason Hewitt, Theo Raeken, Sheriff Stilinski (Teen Wolf), Melissa McCall, Peter Hale, Cora Hale, Malia Tate, Allison Argent, Chris Argent, Eli Hale (Teen Wolf)

Relationships: OC/OC, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, Lydia Martin/Jordan Parrish, Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall, Corey Bryant/Mason Hewitt, Liam Dunbar/Theo Raeken

Additional Tags: Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John (Teen Wolf), Fluff and Angst, Fluff, Angst, melissa is a bamf, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Good Pack Alpha Derek Hale, Erica and Boyd are alive bc I love them and they deserved better, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags Are Hard, the movie never happened, ngl i hate it, also the POV swaps around

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/48153880