#pre-steter

[hawkstincan]

[arsenicalikat]

Maybe posting the first one thousand words will help me finish this.

Pre-Steter / Post-Sterek (We are mad at Derek in this, but we still love him like the damaged fucks we are.) ((Derek and Stiles are getting a divorce)) (((Peter hasn't shown up yet, but he will)))

He saw it. There was no denying it now, but he liked to pretend that he didn’t. He had felt it, but he had never been able to vocalize it, even when the feeling seemed to overwhelm him. He knew the relationship Derek had formed with that woman wasn’t physical, or at least not at the moment, but it was emotional. Stiles and Derek had been married for five years, but Stiles knew it was coming to an end and had been for over a year. Derek had handed papers the night before without a word, leaving their home with no explanation.

The signs had been there, but it didn’t mean Stiles wasn’t shocked. Sure he would have liked some kind of explanation. “Hey, Stiles, I’m fucking someone else.” Or “Hey, man I pledged my life to, I don’t love you anymore.” Stiles let the folder fall from his fingers, papers fluttering to the hard surface of his desk. Tears burned as they well in his eyes, dripping down his cheeks. He looked around his office, thinking about what he would do next.

He may not have verbalized it, but he had known it was coming, even if it was mostly just subconsciously he had prepared. He had saved money, and he had already taken an inventory of what he would take with him if he had ever left. Sure, he had hoped it would be hypothetical like his doomsday prepping, but with the way snot clogged his nostrils and sobs burned his throat, he knew it was real. His husband, the man who had vowed to love and support him, was leaving him.

Stiles knew what he had to do, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. He wanted to fight for their relationship, but he knew that had already passed him by. He had missed his chance to change Derek’s mind, but really that was probably for the better. He didn’t want to trap the man in a partnership that didn’t make him happy anymore. If he could find what he needed in someone else, Stiles was willing to let him go. Stiles didn’t know if that was because he was a good person or if he was ready to let go as well.

He pulled out his phone, calling his dad. “Hey, kiddo, I swear I’m eating my salad right now.” Stiles could hear the crackle of a wrapper, most likely a fast-food burger.

“Dad.” He knew his voice was raw and congested with tears, probably sending his dad into a panic. “Can you come to pick me up after you get off work?”

He could hear the clack of his dad grabbing his keys, ready to rush to his aid. “What’s wrong, son? Are you at home?”

Stiles huffed out a small, humorless chuckle. “Dad, no rush. I’m at home, and I’ll tell you about it when you get off work.”

Stiles could hear his dad’s heavy boots on the tile floor of the precinct and his door shutting behind him. “Son, you have never called me crying. You will allow this old man to worry and come to your aid, do you understand?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“Less than.” The Sheriff ended the call.

Stiles fell to the floor, hysterical laughter falling from his lips. His dad had always had his back, and he didn’t expect him to fail him this time either, but it was still a relief to have his father in his corner. Stiles hurriedly rushed through the house, trying to erase his presence before his dad got there to take him away.

At that moment, he regretted, leaving the jeep in his dad’s care. He hated that his dad would trap him in the car, demanding answers. He didn’t want the Sheriff to hate Derek; the man saw him as a father after his own had died in the fire. After five years of marriage, eight years of being together, and thirteen years of being in the same pack, Stiles could not do that to him. He could not take any more family away from his soon-to-be ex-husband.

Stiles heaved his boxes out the door, stacking them on the walkway. He looked at his belongings, wondering when his life had been reduced to three boxes and a suitcase. Gasping sobs tore from his chest, and Stiles briefly wondered what kind of picture he had made. He wondered if his neighbors had their nosey faces pressed to the expertly cleaned glass of their windows, watching as his world fell apart. Were they watching as he heaved his meager belongings out of the house he had called home for nearly eight years? Had they seen when Derek was home less and less, wondering what could possibly taking up his time to leave his husband at home alone? Were they witnesses to his spiral into depression and loneliness?

Next to the boxes, he fell to his knees, flopping down on his bottom. His legs were spread out in front of him; he looked out, noticing his shoes weren’t tied, but he couldn’t be bothered to tie them. He drug his fingertips along with the rough concrete, trying to pull himself from the never-ending panic attack that was burning through his body. He scraped his heel along the walkway, tucking it under his other leg as he rocked back and forth, trying to soothe himself. He hadn’t had a true panic attack in years; Derek had always been there to ease his nerves and steady his breathing, but he knew he would never have that again. His support, his rock, had dropped him to the bottom of the river with no way to swim to the surface. He was cursed to forever drown with no helping hand to lift him from the sand and grime of the river bed.

He was lost in the haze of gasping for air and did not notice his father had pulled up until his ear was pressed firmly into his chest. His father’s heartbeat thudding strongly as his warm hands rubbed up and down his back, trying to bring him back to the present.

“You can get through this, son. I know you can, my brave son.”

“Dad!” Stiles sobbed out, wrapping his arms around the Sheriff’s torso.

His dad started running a gentle hand through Stiles’ wild hair as if he were a child. “It’s okay, son. Whatever it is, it will all be okay.”

[fascinatedscrawls]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Title: Lost and Gone Are Two Different Things Author: Nenagh24(EverFascinated) Warnings: Major Character Death Word Count: 5165 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Relationships: Claudia Stilinski & Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Tags: One Shot, Pre-Relationship, like WAY pre-relationship, Soulmates, possibly platonic possibly romantic, who can tell it's like a decade away from any true relationship, because Stiles is way too young to make that decision, and Peter respects that (possibly more than Stiles does), Lost Things AU, Canonical Character Death, of Claudia, No beta we die like Claudia Summary: Stiles’ soulmate loses a lot of strange and concerning things, but that’s fine. Stiles will keep everything safe until he gets a chance to get all of it back to them.

[twothumbsandnostakeincanon]

👀😤😏 @stetervault​

The moment Stiles stood up and the bandages fell off him, he realized something was wrong.

He was off balance, dramatically so, movements weighted too far forward. He stumbled, crashing into Melissa. His mind was an angry nest of confusion and fear, unaware of why he felt so unbalanced, unsure if the nogitsune was actually gone, and unsettled at the idea that his pack hadn’t known whether he was him or not. 

Melissa caught him around the waist, steadying him in time to hear the gasps behind him. He twisted around to see what was going on, only to find everyone staring at his back, mouths open. He craned his neck around, looking at his back with an unimpeded view. 

Unimpeded. 

No feathers tickling his nose. No wing joint blocking his sightline. 

Nothing. 

He looked up at the others, convinced that this must be another trick of the nogitsune. Another hallucination to play with him, to bring chaos to his mind. 

One by one, they stared back at him, pity in every face. Exactly as Stiles imagined his worst nightmare would go. The nogitsune took its cues from Stiles’ own mind, maybe this was all made up and taken from himself-

His eyes reached Peter. His face was unusually grim. He looked back at Stiles, no sign of a cold smirk or cutting grin anywhere. He simply looked at Stiles, serious, a hint of grief in the set of his mouth. 

It was real. 

Stiles screamed. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

Three years later, he still thought it would have been easier to handle if the nogitsune had left scars. Something, anything as proof that his wings had once existed. Had once surrounded him, keeping him warm and lifting him from the earth, wings that looked exactly like his mother’s.

He only had pictures of either now. 

But no. The skin of his back was smooth and unmarked. He’d taken to telling the people he slept with that it was a birth deformity. The lie was never discovered- after all, they would have had to stay for at least a second night to find out, and Stiles would never allow that. 

Most of the time he wasn’t even around by the next morning, already on his way to the next town with the next job. 

Besides, sometimes he almost believed the lie himself. He was so far divorced from his former life that it felt like someone else’s memories. 

He’d found benefits to being wingless. The effort he had to make to re-learn balance had carried him into the kind of grace and stealth that could be very lucrative, when used correctly. Most attacks come from the sky, dropping in suddenly from any direction; and absolutely no one would dare to escape on the ground, where one might be so easily caught. 

Unless one was Stiles. 

So he took jobs, and did them under the noses of those who looked skyward, convinced that the only worthy threat could come from there. 

The jobs were dubiously legal at best, but that didn’t matter. Not when any possible future law enforcement career had been stripped from him the moment he lost his wings. Instead, he used his comprehensive knowledge of the law to break it more effectively. 

Not at the moment, though. 

At the moment, he was having a perfectly legal cup of coffee, in a perfectly respectable Starbucks, so Seattle-generic that he wondered if his client would be able to pick it out from the other three Starbucks on the street. 

He sipped the cold brew, back to the wall, no one paying enough attention to him to notice the missing wings. It was relaxing, not being noticed. Not being stared at. He slouched back further onto the wall. 

He was mid-sip when the door opened again. His eyes flicked over, looking for the identifier his client had said he’d be wearing. 

A red and white striped pocket square in a vest. 

He also wore sunglasses and a well-tailored jacket, hair styled fairly long. 

Definitely longer than the last time he’d seen him. 

“God fucking damn it, Peter,” Stiles sighed. 

Peter took a seat across from him, taking off his sunglasses and folding his wings behind him. 

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he chided, reaching out to snag the cold brew from Stiles’ hands, until Stiles stabbed him with the coffee stirrer. 

“What do you fucking want?” Stiles said aggressively, no longer comforted by the wall at his back, but trapped by it. 

Peter frowned at him as he picked splinters out of his hand. 

“I want to hire you. Or did you not actually read the last email I sent?” He raised a judgemental eyebrow. 

Stiles stared at him flatly. 

“I don’t believe that you've ever had a single motivation for doing something in your life. Your plans have so many layers that they’re hidden in plain sight by pretending to be lasanga. What. Do. You. Want.”

Peter smiled brightly. 

“You caught me. Dual motivation. I wanted to steal the Deschamp Bestiary, and your coffee.” He reached out again, faster this time, and managed to snatch it, taking a long sip. 

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“In all seriousness,” Peter continued, “I want that bestiary, not only because it’s a one of a kind book worth millions, but also because it’s currently in the hands of a dangerous family. A dangerous family absolutely full of bastards.”

Stiles looked up at him. 

“And you need me, specifically, to help you do that,” he said, obvious skepticism in his tone. 

“I did mention that they were bastards, right?” Peter said lightly, taking another sip. “Awful bastards. With bastard tight air security. No one drops into their compound without being killed.” 

Stiles sighed, clearly able to see where this was going. 

“I need someone competent in ground infiltration. And you, my dear, are the most competent on the market right now.” The look he gave Stiles was heavy lidded, a mixture of pleasure and anticipation.

Stiles wasn’t sure it was entirely for the upcoming job. 

He chewed on his lip, internally debating. 

As a general rule, Stiles took any job that would fuck over a hunter. He had enough grudges left over from high school to make it worth it. He also generally took any job with a high enough payout. 

However, he didn’t take jobs from people he’d helped murder once. In general. 

“What are you even doing in Seattle?” Stiles asked, delaying his decision. 

“I live here,” Peter answered, swirling the coffee a little, trying to get cream up from the bottom. 

“You left Beacon Hills?” Stiles said, actually surprised. 

“After you left, I hardly had anything keeping me there,” Peter sniffed delicately. “You were the only worthwhile member of that pack. Besides, McCall started getting a little too friendly with Eichen House... I could only assume that would not end well for me.”

Stiles snorted, unsurprised that Scott would work with Eichen House to get Peter put away. 

“I have a pack here now-” Peter continued. 

“Wait,” Stiles interrupted. “You have a pack or you’re part of a pack?”

Peter briefly flashed red eyes in response. Stiles groaned. 

“Who did you kill?” he demanded. He had a vague idea of Peter killing Scott on his way out of town, and if that was what had happened, he was absolutely not taking the job. He didn’t want to touch Beacon Hills nonsense with a ten foot pole. 

Peter looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. 

“You don’t think I’m worthy of True Alpha power, Stiles?” he said, beseeching. 

Stiles brandished the coffee stirrer again, face deadly serious. Peter laughed. 

“Deucalion,” he finally answered, adjusting his wings until they hung more loosely over the back of his chair.

Stiles relaxed. Peter smiled in amusement. 

“I’ve had nothing to do with Beacon Hills for almost as long as you have,” he said, voice quieter, more sincere. “I really, truly contacted you because you’re the best person for the plan, and my plans are always the best. The fact that I get to see you again is just a bonus.” 

Stiles sat back, face impassive as he searched Peter’s. 

Peter hadn’t once brought up Stiles’ non-existent wings, despite that being the reason Stiles was available for the job at all. He didn’t glance over Stiles’ shoulder, looking for the thing that wasn’t there. He looked Stiles in the face, as if that was the only place he wanted to look. 

Damn it. 

“Alright. I’ll do it.” 

[bloody-bee-tea]

Inktober for Writers Day 23

23. Wishes

“I will grant you three wishes,” the Djinn said again as Stiles stared at him.

He was pretty sure this was all one big joke, mostly because there was no Aladdin like feeling to this. He didn’t rub a pretty golden lamp and the Djinn might have been blue but that was basically where the similarities ended.

Instead, Stiles had stumbled into an ancient stone circle, bones scattered everywhere, and it looked like that had awoken the Djinn. Who was covered head to toes in tattoos and scars. He didn’t make the most trusting picture, but he was offering three wishes to Stiles and who was he to decline that. He knew exactly what to use them for anyway.

“I want my mom back,” Stiles said without thinking too hard about it, but before the Djinn could answer him Scott was at his side.

“You can’t, Stiles,” he hissed and Stiles turned around to him.

“And why not, Scott?” he asked and Scott looked apologetic but he still opened his mouth.

“It’s not right to decide who gets to life and who gets to die. You cannot bring someone back and let other people be dead,” he explained and he sounded sorry, but also like he wasn’t about to back down.

“So you’re telling me you don’t want to have Allison back? You’re going to tell Chris that he doesn’t get to see his daughter again?” Stiles asked and Scott paled. “You’re going to look me in the eye and tell me it’s not fair that I get to have my mom back?” he furiously asked and Scott flinched.

“We don’t know if we can trust him. Look at all these bones. Who knows how they died,” Scott tried again and Stiles shrugged.

“Maybe they asked for the wrong things,” he offhandedly said and then turned back to the Djinn.

He wouldn’t lose this opportunity because Scott felt like it was morally wrong or something. Stiles stumbled into this damn circle and he was going to take what the Djinn offered.

“I want my mom back,” he said again and the Djinn tilted his head in consideration.

“I cannot bring people back from the dead by myself. My magic is not strong enough. But you,” he said with his strange accent and walked around Stiles once. “You have magic of your own. I can root the wish into your magic; your magic will feed it, will keep it alive.”

“So you can do it?” Stiles asked.

“If you allow me to use your magic.”

“Is she going to be a zombie?” Stiles inquired, aware that just because the Djinn said he could bring her back, it didn’t mean she would be the same as before.

“She will be healthy and of sane mind,” the Djinn told him and Stiles nodded, decision already made.

“I wish to have my mom back,” he declared and the Djinn grinned at him before his eyes started to glow and Stiles felt someone grab for his magic.

It was a distinctly uncomfortable feeling, but he endured it and after a few seconds it was gone.

“She awaits you at home,” the Djinn declared and stared Stiles down. “What is your second wish?”

“I wish for Allison back,” Stiles said without a second thought and the same procedure went down again.

“And for your third wish?”

“You need to ask for an unlimited source of magic,” Peter suddenly spoke to his left and Stiles flinched.

“What? No. I’m going to ask for your family,” he said, like is should be obvious but Peter shook his head at him.

“I can only bring back one person per wish,” the Djinn interjected and Stiles frowned.

“Fine. Laura then,” he decided but Peter shook his head again.

“Stiles, think. He’s rooting this in your magic. You don’t have an unlimited supply of that. Sparks can run out. You need to ask him to make sure that never happens.”

There was this nibbling thought, that maybe Stiles should slow down and stop to think about this properly, like Peter demanded, but he couldn’t, not when the Djinn was right there and when he had the chance to maybe not make the Hale’s whole again, but at least mend something between Derek and Peter. So instead of taking it slow, he charged right on.

“Deaton said I’m the most powerful Spark he has ever seen,” Stiles said. “I think I can sustain this for as long as I want. Besides,” he flashed a quick smile at Peter, “if we get Laura back, maybe Derek will stop hating you.”

Something complicated flashed over Peter’s face at that, raw and open and hurting and surprised all at once and Stiles reached out to squeeze his hand.

“It will be fine,” he reassured him before he turned to the Djinn once more.

“Before I make my last wish, why are all these bones here?” he asked and the Djinn smiled a smile at him that made his blood turn cold.

“Not everyone asks for the right things. Not everyone uses the right words,” the Djinn told him and then asked again “Your third wish?”

“I wish for Laura back,” Stiles said, not thinking too hard about how easily he could have asked for the same wrong things as so many before, but the Djinn worked his magic again and suddenly the circle was just a circle once more.

“Aaaaand we just believe him that he brought them all back?” Stiles asked no one in particular.

“Djinns don’t lie,” Peter said. “They deceive, and strangle you with your own words, but they don’t lie. If he said he did it, it is done.” He turned to Stiles again. “This will hurt you more than you think,” he told him and then left without a look back.

Stiles looked at Scott, but Scott was resolutely staring at the ground and not meeting his eyes.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Stiles said but Scott didn’t look up.

“It’s not right,” he said again and straightened up, but still adverting his gaze. “It’s not right that someone gets to decide who comes back and who has to continue to suffer and mourn.”

“Say that again when Allison smiles at you, will you?” Stiles bit out and turned around, walking away from Scott.

He really didn’t need this black and white morality right now, not when his mom was waiting at home for him.

This one has a second part right here.

[arsenicalikat]

Bash and Burn

Summary:

After some vampire killed his dad, Stiles took his revenge. Was it brutal? Yes. Was it deserved? Stiles thought so. So, why did Scott look at him with disdain and disappointment? This is the prequel to Two Sides of the Same Coin.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36540739

Bash and Burn

alikatastic

The world came to a standstill. His world was crumbling around him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. There was no going back, no changing the outcome. The only thing he could do was move forward. Stiles had always wondered what would have happened if he could stay with the FBI. He had questioned what that would mean for his dad. He had even argued that he would probably be safer without him there because it would take the target off his back. He looked around the room with no one to tell I told you so too.

The blood seeped into the carpet and coated the walls. He had seen many dead bodies in the last six years, but he had never seen the level of mangled destruction that had become his dad. Noah hadn’t done anything to deserve this, and like always, Scott was nowhere to be found. His father, his dad, had been attacked and killed in their home, and the alpha could not even bother to come by and witness what was done. There was barely anything left to identify, and the image would be forever burned into his mind.

When he had called Scott, he had expected some level of empathy, maybe even just a few kind words and a shoulder to cry on. He fell to his knees, ignoring the blood seeping through his jeans. He briefly wondered what would happen if he called the cops, but he pushed the thought away. He would take matters into his own hands. He would get revenge; he would hunt that undead fuck down and destroy it.

There was already blood on his hands, but it was the blood of a loved one. He needed to wash that horrible substance from his skin. He needed to replace it with the blood of the vampire, who thought it was an excellent idea to fucking kill his dad. He would make sure that vile creature understood that he had fucked with the wrong pack member; he had killed the wrong man. He would set an example for any beast that thought fucking with Mieczyslaw “Stiles” Stilinski was a good idea.

It had been easier than he thought to find the vampire. Scott had made it simple by letting him go. He brought the creature to the vet clinic and gave him a stern talking, then told him to leave Beacon Hills. That was the justice that Alpha Scott McCall thought his father deserved. Stiles chuckled at the thought. The man that he had backed, the man he had befriended years ago, had let his father’s murderer go with a slap on the wrist.

He trapped the vampire in a circle of mountain ash with him, not even noticing Scott on the outside of the ring. He looked down at his trusty bat. It was etched with runes and wrapped in barbed wire, knowing it was warded strong enough to take down nearly any creature. He should have known that Scott would follow the vampire as he left in hindsight. Scott had started screaming at him to get away from the beast when the ash line went up, but Stiles didn’t even look at him. He only had eyes for the murdering fuck.

“Let me see that gnarly smile, you cold fuck.” Stiles tapped the bat against the heel of his converse before swinging it up with both hands. The vampire rushed him, but Stiles swung with all his might. He caught the creature in the temple with the bat, smiling as blood sprayed across his face.

The vampire rolled to the side, the skin of his face slowly started stitching back together. “Is that all you have, puny human?”

Stiles grinned, showing too many teeth. “Come on.” He motioned with the bat for the vampire to come at him again. It rushed him again. It went high, lunging for his throat, but Stiles went low, taking out his knee. The beast fell to the ground, and Stiles was on him, swinging his bat down on his head with as much brute force as he could muster.

Swing!

Die

Swing!

You

Swing!

Dead

Swing!

Fucking

Swing!

Fuck!

Swing!

Blood and brain matter had sprayed across the leaves and coated his skin. Then for the first time since he had created the mountain ash circle around the club, he felt his magic flare. He felt that spark in his chest start to burn in anticipation. Before he knew what was happening, the air around him began to combust. The mangled dead flesh of the undead fuck began to burn. He could feel the flames licking at his skin, but he didn’t stop until there were only ashes left of the beast.

After the murdering fuck was gone, the silence descended. He didn’t know when Scott stopped yelling, but the peace after getting his revenge made chilled him to the bone. He had always wondered how far he would go for his pack, for his family, but now he knew. He knew that he would gladly bathe in the blood of his enemies to protect his loved ones.

He looked back to Scott; his heart broke at the look of disdain and disappointment that Scott was giving him. The alpha shook his head, backing away. He wouldn’t even turn his back to Stiles. He was scared, and Stiles had to laugh at the turn of events. He was the bad guy; he was the murderer. Stiles broke the mountain ash line, walking back home. Stiles was familiar with the look that Scott had given him. It was the same look he gave Peter Hale when he was around. Stiles jerked at the thought. He was more like Peter than he had thought. They were two sides of the same coin.

[arsenicalikat]

Nearly 10,000 words! I might just finish!

(Welcome Peter!!)((We dance, drink coffee, and text))(((Oh, did I mention Stiles is an Editor)))

He wanted to text Peter, but he didn’t know if he should. He didn’t want to appear clingy or something; he didn’t want Peter to feel like he was replacing Derek. He didn’t know how to show the other man that Peter made him feel free for the first time in years. They seemed to have a better connection than he and Derek ever did.

He pulled up Peter’s contact, smiling at the picture he captured. His eyes were ethereally bright, even with the moon in the background. He sent a text before he could change his mind.

Do you know the cash price of heroin? He regretted the message immediately. The question had been stuck in his mind, though; it seemed outrageously expensive in the story he was working on.

That is a nasty habit to pick up love. Surely, that is not something you plan on doing? Stiles had to laugh. After he sent that stupid message, he had worried Peter wouldn’t reply.

No, but it’s a work thing. They had talked about work; Peter had seemed strangely proud about his choice of work.

He felt something warm in his chest with the quick reply. Obviously, if you turned to drugs, it would be an upper.

Stiles frowned, questions rolling around in his head. You’ve thought about this?

I need to know the potential proclivities of a prospective partner.

Stiles jerked; his blanket was suddenly too warm. Partner? He had to ask.

He could tell there was a lag in that response. His heart was beating out of his chest, waiting for Peter to reply. Dates typically lead to a partnership.

Aren’t you the presumptuous one, creeper-wolf?

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy.

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[arsenicalikat]

Are we having fun yet? 8000 words in.

(Who actually needs a ho-phase when you have Peter Hale)((Persuasion))

Stiles scoffed, grabbing his arm so he could look at him. “It’s not you, well, that’s not right; it’s definitely you.” Peter looked at him with an arched eyebrow. “I know you, like, I’ve known you forever. It wouldn’t just be a one-night stand, and I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

Peter’s smile melted the rest of Stiles’ discomfort away. “Oh, love, are you worried I’m not relationship material?” His large hand grabbed his arm, gently turning Stiles. “Maybe I convince you.”

The kiss was like a strike of lightning, making every hair on his body stand straight up. A confident tongue swept across his lips, making him moan. Peter’s tongue danced with his, making Stiles stand up on his toes to get closer. Peter pulled away with a smirk on his face, making Stiles smile. “I hear you can be very persuasive.” Stiles took a step back, putting space between them. “So you’ll have to persuade me.”