Not really a prompt, was just wondering if you still wrote because your stories are some of the best ones I've read out there. Thanks.
Hi, thank you so much for checking in on me! I haven’t written anything lately (though I’ve had fics on the brain!) due to focusing on my professional and personal life (I got engaged?!?!?!?), but I’m hoping to get back to writing in the near future. :)
Edit: I should add that I’m in the very early stages of beginning work on some original fiction that I’m very very excited about and hope to be able to share with you guys someday. :D
For the prompt thing, one of my favorite tropes is Sterek forced bed sharing. If you feel inclined. ;) Thanks! Love your stuff. <3
thanks to carrie for the mix up earlier this week, which reminded me about this prompt. it’s…not really about beds, whoops. and i went over the word limit again (1246 words)
Stiles has never seen snow this heavy. In fact, before an hour ago, he’d barely seen snow at all; being so close to the coast, a winter wonderland Beacon Hills is not. If he’d been expecting it - if he was inside and warm, watching the snow fall through a window - he might be enjoying it, but an hour ago - was it only an hour? Maybe it’s been longer; he can’t tell, can’t unbend his fingers to find his phone - it was ninety degrees and sunny, and he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, and the snow’s already up to his shins. He’s never been so cold in his life; he’s already lost feeling in his feet and he’s not sure which is worse - not being able to feel his feet, or the wet way his jeans cling to his legs, burning colder and colder with every step.
Derek’s there. They got separated from the rest of the pack when the storm descended, and the only reason he hasn’t lost Derek in the driving snow is because he’s got his fingers curled through the loops of Derek’s belt as they trudge through the woods. He can’t feel his fingers, or his arms in general, and he can barely lift his head against the wind. He can hear Derek breathing heavily over the wail of the wind; it’s a surprise to Stiles how hard it is to walk through the snow, and that’s with Derek in front of him, forging the path. He’s not sure where they’re going, not sure Derek knows either - to find the edge of the storm, or the road, or shelter, whichever comes first. He’s scared they’re lost - that they’re heading away from the road, that this magical storm won’t end. He’s heard you get warm when you die of hypothermia, and that’s the only reason he welcomes the sting of snow against his cheeks, but he’s getting tired, and he’s terrified of what’s going to happen when he’s too exhausted to keep lifting his frozen feet.
Derek stops so abruptly that Stiles, too tired to lift his head, walks into his back. Derek doesn’t even snap at him: not a great sign. Any other time, being so close to Derek might have made him hot all over, and he certainly would have welcomed that heat right now, but all he can think about is the refrain that keeps repeating in his head: I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.
“W-what is it?” Stiles asks, teeth chattering. He blinks, snowflakes catching in his lashes, but he can’t see anything, just the dim shape of trees and swirling clouds of snow. It seems darker than it was before. “Sun’s setting?”
“Yes,” Derek says shortly, and Stiles’ heart sinks.
“What are we gonna do?” he asks hoarsely. “Are we - no one’s going to find us out here.”
Derek looks over his shoulder at Stiles and his face softens. “I think I know where we are,” he says. “There should be a cabin somewhere around here.”
Stiles exhales a shaky sigh of relief. “Close?”
“Quarter mile at most,” Derek says. His brow furrows. “Are you doing okay?”
Stiles shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest in a futile attempt to stay warm. “Let’s just keep going.”
Derek sighs but he starts walking again. Stiles hunches his shoulders against the wind and follows.
The snow’s getting deeper - it’s almost to Stiles’ knees now - and falling fast as ever. He stumbles over a branch hidden under the snow, and he’s so cold that when he falls he can’t even feel the snow against his skin. He’s tired and freezing and part of him thinks maybe it’d just be easier to stay there, just lay down and go to sleep - but then there are hands under his armpits hauling him back up. Stiles grumbles in protest, but Derek grabs him by the chin, forcing him to make eye contact.
“Keep. Going,” Derek hisses, and then he forces Stiles to walk, one cold hand curled under his elbow to keep him upright. Stiles hates him a little - and then he almost melts with relief as a dark blur in the distance resolves into the firm shape of a small cabin.
“This yours?” he asks, as Derek hauls him up onto the narrow porch.
“No,” Derek says darkly, accentuating the point by punching through a window. He feels around for the latch and then shoves the window open. He gestures at Stiles, who wastes no time forcing his frozen fingers to get to work and haul himself inside, Derek giving him an extra boost. It’s not graceful; his weary limbs fail him and he hits the floor hard - but it’s a floor, not snow, and that’s good enough for him.
He rolls out of the way so Derek can clamber inside after him, and then he relaxes, eyes closing. It’s so quiet in here, so still. He’s so tired he could fall asleep right here on the hard floor, but -
“Stiles,” Derek says sharply. “Get up. Take your clothes off.”
Stiles’ eyes fly open. “What?” he yelps, scrambling to his feet.
“Take your clothes off,” Derek repeats, stripping off his shirt. “They’re soaking wet and freezing cold. If you don’t get them off, it won’t matter that we found shelter.”
“Uh uh,” Stiles says, folding his arms over his chest. “No way.” He’s had fantasies about getting naked with Derek, all right, but the circumstances in them were completely different than right now, and they generally involved Derek returning Stiles’ feelings, and this Derek - real Derek - doesn’t know, and Stiles can’t do it. He can’t - but the worst part is, he knows Derek is right. They’re out of the wind and gusting snow, but he’s starting to shake uncontrollably as the cold and wet seep deep into his bones. “There’s gotta be a way to get warm in here,” he says, looking around desperately.
“There is,” Derek says bluntly, unbuckling his jeans. “There’s a cot and a sleeping bag and we’re getting in it.”
“No,” Stiles says. That’s even worse - naked, crammed into a sleeping bag with Derek? No. No way.
Derek pauses in the middle of pushing down his pants to give Stiles an exasperated look. “Do you want to freeze to death?”
“No,” Stiles repeats miserably. He hesitates, shoving his hands into his armpits to try and stop the shaking. He exhales harshly. “I just - ”
Derek straightens, his face softening. “Look,” he says. “I know.”
Stiles freezes. “You know,” he says slowly.
“I pay attention,” Derek says.
“But you didn’t say anything.”
“No,” Derek says quietly. “I didn’t know if it was - just a crush, or…more.”
Stiles swallows hard. “More,” he says, almost a whisper.
“Oh,” Derek says. Stiles doesn’t know what that means - until Derek moves, closing the distance between them. He takes Stiles’ face in his hands and studies him for a long, breathless moment before he leans in and kisses him. His lips are cold and his hands on Stiles’ body are even colder, but it still might be the best kiss Stiles has ever had. When they pull apart, Stiles finds himself grinning widely, though his teeth are chattering so hard it makes his jaw hurt.
“Come on,” Derek says softly, giving Stiles a faint, unfamiliar smile that feels like it’s only for him. “You can’t die now.”
“No,” Stiles says, kicking off his shoes. He grins at Derek. “Not now.”
(obvs everyone’s fine, and they find the warlock that brought the storm, and then there’s butts and dicks and stuff)
Just saw your follow up post about wanting prompts via ask so here ya go. :) Hitchhiker AU wherein either Derek or Stiles is hitchhiking but werewolves are still a thing. (Honestly though, I look forward to whatever you may find interesting enough to write about. Have fun writing!) <3
Hi guys, so sorry for the delay! I’ve been moving and having to deal with all the chaos that comes along with it! Things are finally starting to settle down, so I’m hoping to have more time to write in the coming weeks. Anywho, this one is not about hitchhiking because I misremembered the prompt, but it’s based on a story I read on a creepy AskReddit thread + fic idea @blacktofade and I talked about weeks ago. (Also broke the “less than 1000 words” rule; this one is 1568 words.)
Stiles is lost. He suspects it happened at that weird six-way intersection, when he should have taken the slight right instead of straight through, but that was miles back, and he’s gotten so turned around that he couldn’t find his way back even if he wanted to - which he does but can’t, because he’s so far out in the middle of nowhere that his phone can’t find a signal, and the ancient GPS he digs out of the back sternly tells him that its maps are more than five years out of date and refuses to let him use it until he updates it.
So he’s well and truly lost. He just keeps driving, because he’s at least got most of a tank of gas left, and the roads are in pretty good condition, so he’s gotta hit a town sometime. The sun is beginning to set, but even if he has to sleep in his car overnight, he’s not worried - he’s got snacks, and a jug of water.
It’s only when he begins to wind his way up a mountain that he begins to feel a little anxious. No one would have taken the time to carve a road up the side of a mountain if there wasn’t something worthwhile on the other side, he tells himself. This isn’t some dirt track; there are guard rails on the sharp curves, and the lines look recently painted. Still, he doesn’t see a single car on the way up, and there’s hardly any shoulder - the trees press close to the edge of the road, forming dark arches overhead. It’s a lot darker with the forest around him, red light from the setting sun filtering through the branches.
It feels like hours before Stiles crests the mountain and begins heading back down the other side, but he’s flooded with relief at the sight of lights twinkling in the valley below - sweet civilization. Now he relaxes as he drives, safe in the knowledge that he’ll be able to figure out where he is soon, maybe get a call in to his dad before he starts worrying about not having heard from him. Stiles’ dad wasn’t entirely happy with Stiles’ brilliant idea of driving across the country to come home for his summer break, but everything considered, it’s been a smooth trip so far. This isn’t the first time he’s gotten lost on this trip, although it’s certainly the longest he’s been off-course, but hey, the end’s in sight - even with this detour, he should be home by tomorrow night at the latest.
The descent into the valley is slower than the ascension; this side of the mountain is steeper, resulting in long downhill stretches followed by sharp hairpin turns as the road carves its way downward. Stiles loses sight of the lights below through the thickening trees, but he’s not worried now he knows they’re there. The sun is almost gone by now, so he drives even slower, worried about coming around one of the curves and finding an animal in the road; he vaguely remembers someone telling him once that deer are most active at sunrise and sunset. This caution is why he’s able to stop in time when he takes one of the hairpin turns and there’s a man standing in the middle of the road.
After slamming to a halt, all Stiles can do for a moment is stare in shock, his heart hammering at the near miss. The man’s just standing there with his back to Stiles; he hasn’t moved a muscle, even with the front of jeep stopped a bare fifteen feet from him. Stiles quickly moves from shock to anger - what is this dude’s issue and why the hell is he just standing in the middle of the road? - and he’s about to roll down the wind and yell at the man to get the fuck out of his way when the man moves, turning to look at Stiles, and his face is fucked. It’s not - it’s not human; he’s got this insane brow ridge, and there are fangs in his mouth, and his fucking eyes are glowing blue.
“What the fuck,” Stiles hisses. He’s completely frozen - until the man takes a step toward the jeep, and then his brain goes NO NO NO and he jerks the wheel to the side and slams on the gas, leaping past the man.
“What the fuck, what the fuck,” he chants, clutching at the wheel to keep his hands from shaking. That was - that was a dream, right? He glances in the rearview mirror, and the man is gone, which...he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. It turns out it’s worse, definitely, because there’s movement to his left and when Stiles turns his head, the man’s running alongside his car. This man - this thing - is keeping pace with him, and Stiles is going at least forty miles an hour now. “Fuck,” Stiles moans, and he speeds up, but the fucking thing speeds up too, and he - it - grins at Stiles, like it’s having fun. Like it knows just how fucking freaked out he is right now.
And then, another hairpin curve in the road, and Stiles brakes hard, but he’s going too fast heading into it; he goes wide and the edge of the road sucks at his tires, yanking him off the asphalt before he has time to correct. The world starts blipping by in fast vignettes after that: the trees turning sideways; the night sky overhead, still tinged pink from the sun; the windshield spider-webbing. He’s jolted forward and sideways and finally smacks his head against something - the window, the steering wheel - and the world goes dark.
When he opens his eyes again, Stiles’ whole body hurts, but his head hurts most of all. He’s sideways in the jeep, the ground against the driver’s side window, and Stiles’ first instinct - once his head stops spinning - is to unbuckle himself and reach for the passenger door - but then he freezes. He remembers the man chasing him and he thinks: where did it go? Is it out there in the woods somewhere? Is it coming for him? All he’s got in the jeep are a bunch of clothes and books - he’s got nothing to protect himself with.
Stiles crouches there for ages, listening to the forest. The jeep makes its own noises - a hissing that fades, sharp plinking as metal cools - but the woods are silent. All he can see now is a thin swathe of trees in front of the jeep, barely lit by the one headlight that doesn’t seem to be broken. Nothing moves out there, but what if the thing’s waiting for him to make the first move? He manages to find his phone, but there’s still no cell reception out here. His palms are sweaty. What’s he supposed to do?
Finally, maybe fifteen minutes later, maybe fifteen years, lights swipe over the trees, and he hears footsteps in the brush coming toward him. Stiles tenses as a voice calls, “Hey, you all right in there?” He hesitates to respond; what if it’s the thing? What if it’s a trick?
A pair of legs step into the light from the jeep, and then a man crouches down to peer through the windshield at Stiles, and his face is blessedly normal - handsome, even, if Stiles were in any state to make a pass at strangers right now. “Hey,” the man says again. “You okay? Can you get out of there?”
“I - yeah,” Stiles breathes, and he manages to haul himself out of the passenger side door, though his head protests the movement with violent throbbing. The man’s there to help him down the other side, his hands strong and steady. Stiles feels like the world’s spinning around him.
“I saw your tail lights from the road,” the man says. He puts a hand under Stiles’ elbow and starts steering him toward the road.
“Oh,” Stiles says, digging his heels in. “My stuff - my car - ”
“Leave it,” the man says, a little sharply. “These woods aren’t safe at night.”
“No kidding,” Stiles says dazedly, and lets himself be guided through the trees. As they step out onto the pavement, where a sports card sitting running, headlights on, he adds, “Thanks, by the way.”
“No problem,” the man says, helping Stiles sit on the hood of the car. “No one should be out here alone.” He goes around to the back of the car and digs around in the trunk for a moment. Ominous, Stiles thinks, and then he thinks about how this is the exact kind of scenario his dad always warned him about, but he can’t even be concerned right down because he was chased off the road by a literal hell beast and anyway, when the man comes back, he’s just got a cloth in his hand, which he carefully presses to Stiles’ temple.
Stiles winces at the sensation and the extra throb of pain it sends jolting down his spine. “Am I bleeding?”
“A little,” the man says. He looks down at Stiles, features sharp in the harsh light of the car’s headlights. “I’m Derek, by the way.”
“Stiles,” he says.
“Stiles,” Derek repeats. He turns his head to look at the forest, and the light from the headlights reflects off his eyes, flat and yellow. “Let’s get you somewhere safe.”
long distance relationship thing? / childhood sweethearts?
Oh gosh, I’m trying to remember. Here’s one about not wanting to be long distance. Oh, and another long distance. And then there’s my kids!soul mates series.
A long long time ago (four years ago!! augh!), I wrote this awkward first date fic!
I once began writing an au where Derek was in a famous band and was dating Stiles without Stiles knowing he was famous, but never got far into it. I’d like to do an angsty one where they’re both celebrities someday too!
Oh gosh, I don’t think I have, mostly because I know NOTHING about sports, haha. I did have an idea inspired by a gifset from that baseball movie Hoechlin was in, but it was more sports-adjacent than sports-oriented (dealing with virgin!Derek *u*).
