shhhhhhhh

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this is a super weird thing to say but since we've never seen you, i always imagine you as st. vincent and subsequently imagine st. vincent writing erudite teen wolf fic every time i see her

sometimes I wonder why I keep anon on, and then things like this appear

[drunktuesdaze]

I have a 400+ page spreadsheet to finish proofing by tomorrow morning so I'm gonna need the name and author of that fic where Stiles goes backpacking through Asia and gets tattoos and Derek is like "break me off a piece of that" and they have sex with feelings YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT MAN I LIVE IN MONGOLIA I AM ALONE ON THE STEPPE I HAVE NO FRIENDS PLEASE HELP

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this might not be at all what you're looking for, but it... might be the first teen wolf fic I ever wrote? WHAT AN IMPORTANT BLAST FROM THE PAST, jesus. It definitely includes Stiles traveling and having tattoos and sex and feelings, anyway. 

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important news:

ladyofthelog wrote another masterwork

zehwulf wrote 19k words of this prompt

& I am still a human trashheap 

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(also I'm going over to bask in a friend's AC but will get to more prompts later this evening / tomorrow, when it's ONLY supposed to be in the eighties, can you imagine the luxury)

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starbolin replied to your post:derek and stiles dealing with a heat wave. or a cold snap. that would probably make you feel better, thinking about the cold.

It’s terrible! I didn’t ever want this! It’s already been summer for a year!

it was fine. i was fine. i like summer. i laughed so much at east coast friends and their endless winter.

this is not summer. this is something else entirely. 

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there is a lot of cold beer but no one can successfully light the grill

"Kira you are a fire demon,” Isaac says. “Can’t you just—!” He makes a helpless gesture with both hands. The stir of air over the coals flickers a tiny lick of fire to life. Stiles holds his breath; just as quickly it gutters and dies. 

Simultaneously, a half a dozen supernatural stomachs rumble. 

"I’m not a demon," Kira corrects. "And it’s not fire, it’s—”

"He knows, honey." Scott’s been doing this long enough that he’s practiced at subduing his betas. Stiles barely even sees the flash of fang that has Isaac scowling his retreat. 

"I can," he says. No one seems to believe him.

"You’re drunk," Scott says.

His fang-y thing doesn’t work on Stiles, who grins proudly with a mouth full of human teeth to remind him. ”I’m great at this,” he says. “You’re just missing a crucial ingredient, is all.” He points very steadily at a bottle under the grill. “Lighter fluid will fix this problem. And I am great at lighter fluid.”

"You’re great at mountain ash," Scott says gently. "That’s not the same thing."

"Stand back," Stiles insists. Kira and Isaac are still side-eyeing each other, and it distracts Scott just enough that Stiles can douse the coals liberally in lighter fluid and toss in one lit match.

It goes up high and hot, and there are burgers on the grill in twenty fast minutes.

It only takes Stiles a month or two to grow his eyelashes back. 

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Stiles in bed in his underwear hot as balls drinking a beer after a horrible day?

Stiles peers down the length of his naked body, mystified. From here it's just so many planes and angles: the curve of his ribcage and the flat of his belly, twin peaked hipbones, the string beany length of his legs. He reaches down to palm at his dick a little bit, just to acknowledge the weight of it, the softness of the skin against his too-warm hands. It's a measure of how tired he is that the contact and pressure don't even stir him, or maybe it's age: in high school, when he lived here, touching his dick long enough to tuck it properly into his jeans felt like an unfair provocation more than half the time.

The beer, at least, is cold and bitter and correct, a familiar holdover from college, from when things made sense. He shifts up onto his elbows and takes a series of long, cold swallows. He doesn't reach for his phone, which has been blessedly silent since he got home a few hours ago, in the earliest light of day: after a night spent fighting off Beacon Hills' latest supernatural mishap, and after Derek drove him home and kissed him, tender, fierce, desperate, like Stiles was something he had only recently discovered was delicate, like he was scared of doing it and scared not to. His whole body aches. His brain aches. Sleep seems very far away. 

He finishes the bottle and uses it as an excuse to text Derek "why me, man?" 

No answer comes for a while. Stiles drifts off into tidal kind of nap, mind ebbing and eddying back and forth between dream and consciousness. He almost doesn't trust it when he sees the shadow of a figure perched on his windowsill, like he used to, like he belongs there. "Do you really want to know?" Derek asks.

"Yeah," Stiles says, in the dream, in life. "Of course I do."

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derek and stiles dealing with a heat wave. or a cold snap. that would probably make you feel better, thinking about the cold.

[it has been so hot for so long that I don’t even believe that coldness exists anymore; last night I was watching The L Word and I legitimately got mad about how much clothing various characters were wearing, because looking at them made me itchy. I have… all kinds of problems.]

"It’s not heated," Derek says. 

"Great." Stiles tugs his shirt over his head, shameless. A few years ago he would have hesitated, maybe leapt in fully clothed and pretended he was too hot to wait, but he’s mostly over comparing himself to his wolf-built packmates. He’s pale and skinny and splattered with moles, and it’s been ninety degrees in the shade for a week now, and he is done caring about everything except sweet, cold relief. 

"You might not--" Derek says, but the rest of his sentence is lost as Stiles plunges headfirst into the water, heedless and thrilled. It is cold, chilly enough that his lungs tighten instinctively at the suddenness of it, his skin tight and goosebumped all over. He surfaces gasping, grinning, throwing his head back to feel air move against his skin, no longer stifling and still. 

"This is amazing," he says. 

"You'll get cold in a minute."

"Great. Fantastic. Sounds like a dream."

Derek is sitting on the ledge near the shallow end, dangling his legs so that the water comes midway up his calves. He's still fully clothed and somehow not sweating, which seems improbable, for a werewolf in this heat.

"You're not gonna join me?" Stiles does feel a little bit self-conscious, now, rude or gluttonous. The chill of the water has shocked him back into his senses. He treads water and watches his distorted fingers, all five, as they move. "Or. Are you busy."

"I'm not." Derek kicks a little spray of water up, the shimmer of it catching and refracting the fading western light. "Busy."

"Oh."

Derek frowns and sighs. He looks for a moment like he did when Stiles first knew him: private, guarded, grumpy. Stiles swims over and gets his feet under him. He doesn't realize until he's too close that he's standing between Derek's knees, bare-chested, dripping, that he's imagined a lot of moments that start something like this. He hopes that chlorine will cover him as he reaches up and offers his hand. "C'mon," he says.

Derek reaches back, tentative, and his skin is so hot it's unbearable. Stiles feels blood rushing in him, to the surface, making him prickly with want. He tugs with all of his strength and can't help thinking that still Derek must have wanted to come with him, his body sliding forward helplessly, the clear high peal of his laughter drowned in the splash he makes when he falls all the way in. 

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good riddance to a terrible day in a stressful week. I am currently drinking beer in bed in my underwear; it's ninety degrees out and almost six pm. send me a prompt and i will write you a paragraph of fic, since I am currently incapable of doing anything else at all. 

[powerofhumanlove]

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it's too hot in los angeles for feelings but if I had any left they would all be about this

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for rosengris and cumberwolf, who requested more of this, and dirtydirtychai, who posted this, and because you have to procrastinate somehow, I guess.

So:

That was how Stiles' private life in porn had ended: not with a bang of any kind, but with a photo posted to someone's Instagram. It was supremely, obviously dumb in retrospect, but Stiles didn't think of himself as a personality, then, or even a persona; he was not yet in the habit of considering what anyone else might think of him, or that they might be interested in him at all . Gabe was visiting the set; he asked for a picture; Stiles said yes, and smiled for the camera.

He was busy for the rest of the afternoon, shooting the final video in a series Lydia and Jackson were doing on knotting with human partners, and so when he checked his phone at the end of the day the number of notifications on the lock screen seemed, for a moment, fairly normal. Then he saw how many of them were from Instagram and Twitter. Then he started reading the messages people had sent.

Gabe had posted the photo, mostly unedited, their two faces grinning and backlit and unremarkable, with the caption hottest director I've ever met. What do you think, wolfpack? Shouldn't @stilesstilinski be in front of the camera? Maybe with me :) #thatneck #UNF. The wolf pack had voted unanimously, overwhelmingly, unambiguously yes. 

Stiles hadn't ever thought about it, really. They'd offered it to him when he first started at Neckz'n'Throats, a chance to do a couple of scenes, see how it went, but he'd never taken them seriously: he figured it was an attempt to get him out of their hair and turn him into a sometimes performer, to keep him from doing exactly what he eventually did: stealing their best actors and starting his own production company. And he wouldn't have considered it, probably, a year or two later, once Lydia and Jackson's videos had been edited and posted, once Boyd and Erica landed the cover of US Weekly, and his stable of friends and performers took off as celebrities in their own right. Just then, though, Lovebite was fledgling, and struggling, and Stiles was too pragmatic a businessman not to know that he had a hit on his hands, and that he needed to take advantage. It was surprisingly easy to make the decision, when he could keep from remembering that the hit in question was his own willing ass getting knotted on camera. 

Even still, it surprised him, the way it took off, eclipsing everything else the site did and everything he'd been trying to do with it. "You look like a frat boy," his old boss told him mournfully at an industry mixer, a month or two after Stiles' first video had crashed every server in Lovebite's employ. "You look like you can't decide whether to chug a beer or suck a dick-- like all you want to do is swallow." Stiles had almost gotten used to people describing his body to him in lurid detail, but Deaton's mournful tone threw him. 

"Uh," he said. "Thanks?"

After that there wasn't a lot of choice: to get Lovebite and his own life back on-mission he'd made a concerted effort to become an actual celeb, the way the rest of his actors had, to get invited to events like this one so that he could talk about it, why he'd chosen to make a life for himself in this particular way. It fucking figures, Stiles thinks, ruefully, stealing a glance at Derek brooding in his passenger seat, that I'd manage to screw this part up spectacularly, too.

Because the whole point is that not everything is about sex, or instinct, but that it's okay if it is. That knotting isn't about mating any more than than other kind of orgasms are, and that porn can mean something other than just fucking. That Stiles himself is more than porn, or more than the way people watch his porn: hungry, horny, like the way he likes to get fucked means something, other than that he's human, and that like anyone else, he wants. 

When they get up to Stiles' apartment, none of this stops him from asking Derek to knot him anyway. He's barely gotten the door closed behind them and Derek presses him up against it and kisses him stupid, rough and sloppy, the way he already knows Stiles likes. "Fuck," Stiles breathes, when there's room to do it. "Fuck, god, you're gonna give it to me just like that, right, your dick, you knot, Derek, please--" He can't quite tell anymore, whether he always liked to talk this much, if it's just habit, now; he's gotten bad at drawing the lines between getting fucked professionally and doing it on his own time. It works, though: Derek growls low in his throat and bites Stiles' neck, shoves their hips together and grabs rough handfuls of his ass. "I take it so good," Stiles says. His head is thrown back against the door and he's already flushed, panting. "I want to show you."

"I don't want to look at you," Derek mumbles, teeth sharp at Stiles' collarbone. "Want to feel you, fill you up."

"Big talk." Stiles hooks a leg around Derek's hips and is gratified when he gets the message, shoving him farther up against the door and angling his hips so that the bulge of his dick, hot and hard, rubs fretfully at the back of Stiles' jeans when they move together. "Not here, though."

Derek lets him slide down by degrees, still crowding him up against the door like he needs to be protected, or kept. "Your room?" he asks, and for a moment he's sweetly uncertain, almost shy. Stiles wonders how many other people he's done this with, who else he's trusted with it, if he's ever given his knot to someone he didn't know, before, or even necessarily like. 

"Yeah." 

Derek opens him up slowly, like he might need to take care, and Stiles swallows impatience to let him. Usually guys who've seen-- who know-- Stiles is a particular kind of ride, and the guys who want one, when they've seen-- they aren't usually careful. He's surprised by how good it feels, just two fingers, a little lube, a lot of spit, Derek still kissing him crazily, until Stiles' mouth and chin and throat are buzzed and numb with beard burn. "You can," he says, finally. It does figure that Derek would be a martyr about it, even fucking a porn star famous for how rough he takes it, that he would insist on going slow. Stiles wants to give him a good show; he wants to give Derek what he wants.

"I want this," Derek says. He frowns. "Do you need-- more?"

Stiles shrugs. What he wants to say and will not is: whatever you want is good. But the moment breaks: Derek's eyes get dark and far away as he presses two more fingers in, sudden, and Stiles yowls at how unexpected it is, arching up and clenching around Derek, now, eager, needy.  

"Oh," Derek says. 

"You don't have to." Stiles doesn't have to imagine what he looks like just now, anymore: he doesn't watch his own videos except in edits, sometimes, but that's enough to be familiar with his face mid-coitus, flushed pink and red from cheeks to throat, and the glassy out-of-focus gaze he gets, how his body strings itself long and taut, getting ready to snap. "You can-- however you want. I like everything."

"I want to hear about your first, someday," Derek says. The swell of his knuckles is distinct against the sensitive skin of Stiles' rim. "How you figured out you liked this so much." It's a lot of pressure and sensation, too much for Stiles to form coherent sentences; Derek must know it. He doesn't stop talking. "How you learned to just--" he crooks a finger, inside, and Stiles cries out. "Later," Derek says. "Later, when you're all tied up, open on my knot, you're gonna tell me about it."

Stiles thinks, faintly, that only a bleeding heart of Derek's magnitude would find this kind of I want to get to know you stuff appropriate as dirty talk, but then it doesn't matter, because Derek's dick is sliding into his body and it feels so good they're both wordless and lost. It's not careful and it's not rough: it's just hungry, animal, both of them chasing each other's bodies, calling out for each other, not close enough, not yet. Stiles feels the swell in him before it happens, the pulsing and pressure that means Derek is close, that naked, needy knot rising steadily to fill him right up.

"Fuck, I love it," Stiles says. Derek shudders against him, lets out a sound that's almost forlorn as he slams his hips into place and pulses wetly, deep and dirty and locked up tight. "It feels like-- like your heartbeat is inside of my body." 

Derek choses to ignore this particular bit of babbling. "Shut up," he says. "Come for me." Stiles has been in porn for a couple of years, now, and he has a pretty strict command situation with his dick, which usually obeys him and him alone. Somehow, though, he's not surprised, when Derek's authoritative voice and his swollen knot and his pale-eyed gaze, fire-fierce, are all it takes to tip him over the edge into a place he's never been before, and, even in the blinking aftermath, can't quite seem to recognize. 

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If you could only write variations of one story theme/trope, what would you want that theme/trope to be?

I'm sure I would come to regret this decision eventually, but at this point all the stories I tell are pretty much on the same theme anyway: having a body is weird and sometimes terrible, wanting to sex other people with that body is weird and sometimes terrible; joy is important, so is cooking. 

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Want to go in on a Dunkin' donuts franchise?

oh my god, actually though

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Thoughts on KATEGUAR or any variations of 'kate is a jaguar now for some reason' at all?

first things first, though: HI NAT YOU ARE IN AMERICA, WHY AREN'T YOU IN MY PART OF AMERICA, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU

ummmm I don't have any thoughts about KATEGUAR, really, but that's because I no longer have thoughts about canon? Like, whatever they do with her will be dumb if we're lucky, and offensive if we're not, so whatever. But if someone paid me $$$$$$$ and was like WRITE A FIC ABOUT KATEGUAR it would probably be about how Derek was not the first Hale Kate was assigned to seduce. She was eighteen when Peter was in his early twenties, maybe, lalalala canon doesn't care about ages and neither do I, and she fucked up: she fell for him, even knowing he was an animal, even knowing that he was cunning and dangerous. She got pregnant, too, and told Gerard, said fuck you, fuck this family, I'm done, I'm going to have it and keep it and raise it, even if it is a wolf. It's half mine, half me, half ours.

Except that when she tells Peter he's not interested. "Go take some of that hunter money and abort the little monster," he says. "I'm not fucking raising it." 

Kate does. (Malia is someone else's baby. Peter's a dick about condoms, IDK.) She leaves Beacon Hills and defers college and travels, learns about other shifters, other kinds of magic. Peter used to talk to her, sometimes, about his plans, the onionskin layers of them, endless: for survival, for resurrection, for taking the alpha power with his teeth. When she comes back from South America (you know, just, that whole part of the world) she's got a jaguar fang braided into a bracelet she wears around her wrist. She's ready now, too.

Gerard gives her Derek and she's ruthless, relentless. She knows just how to make a shy teenager fall in love. She feels nothing. It's Peter who sets the fire, intending to walk away unquestioned alpha, to rebuild his pack with desperate omegas; it's Kate who traps him inside. It's Kate who gives in, eventually, worn down by the screaming, and goes a rescues Cora, and takes her to South America, where she'll learn some secrets, where she might, even briefly, be safe. 

Anyway, what happens after Kate has been resurrected? Man, I don't know. Somehow this gets explained to Derek &co., and she helps supermurder Peter (she knows his tricks and backup plans!) and then she takes off and starts a home for wayward hunter runaways, taking them in and teaching them that werewolves are people too. It's not enough to atone. It's not even close. It's all she can do. Sometimes she goes to visit Cora, in South America, (you know, just, like, somewhere down there), and they slip into their sleeker skins together, and run all night long. 

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I just sobbed and clenched my way through all your fics (some of them the second or third time around). I love the way you write--such a good ache. Any plans for a new fic? Which is your favorite?

Awww, thank you :) For the record, I am almost never trying to make anyone sob about things. It's just... how things tend to go, I guess. Anyway, I'm not writing any longfic right now-- I'm super crazy busy, and I'm so over canon, and it just seems silly to expend a lot of energy putting together an AU when I could be spending that time working on freelance projects ($$) &c. But also every time I'm like, I'm done, I'm over it, L8ER TEEN WOLF something like this will occur to me and I'll be like fine, fine, I have an hour, I can bang that out. So who knows, is the real answer to your question.

Oh, also, which fic is my favorite? The Difficult Kind, always, definitely, top of the heap forever, so important for so many reasons. But I really love This Might Hurt as a comment on a bunch of stuff I hate in canon, and Notches in Your Spine because it's a pretty sweet memorial to this one particular relationship. There's lots of stuff-- especially the fics I wrote before TDK-- that I can really take or leave. 

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For $2,411,767.89, would you baby bird steak tips to gerard argent

um would I have to actually regurgitate them or could I just like, chew them up real good? (Do birds do the pre-digesting thing or is that just wolves, and related, WHY HAS NO ONE WRITTEN A JULIE OF THE WOLVES AU, WHAT THE EVER LIVING FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS FANDOM)

anyway this is a thing you really should know about me, though, that I am phobic about vomiting-- yes, that is a real thing and yes, I know no one likes throwing up but trust me I am irrational about it-- anyway I think even for almost 2.5 mill I would have trouble agreeing to it. But if I could just chew things and then gently deposit them into some dude's mouth yeah, for sure. I would let his wipe his black slime snot on me for a cool couple million. I'm easy like that. 

[winstonpaul]

Honesty Hour, Ask me anything! Nothing will go unanswered

[saintsideways]

There are, uh, a lot more of you than I had really… realised. I really suck at about-me’s, so, ask away!

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Samesies