Your current Steter Bang mods (@teenwerewoofs, @meggie-stardust, and @midmorning-bomb) have come to the conclusion that we, unfortunately, do not have the time to run this event this year. 😔
Therefore, if anyone is willing to take this on, we would be more than happy to hand over this blog to you (it's a completely separate account, not just a side blog).
Please reach out and let us know! 🤗
To everyone else: thanks for participating with us the last two years!
Here’s my @steter-bang fic that I teased way back when.
CW for grief, and off screen parent death. (It’s not all sad, though, I promise...)
becoming who we are
It happens when the cookie platters are nothing but crumbs, when the casserole dishes are down to their last corner pieces, when the flowers that fill the living room are starting to wilt. That’s when the doorbell rings, and it takes a minute for Stiles to remember that it’s locked because that’s something he can do now that the door has stopped opening every ten minutes for people to come in and out, in and out, in and out.
When he does remember he jolts to his feet, untangling the blankets from his knees and kicking aside the pile up of shoes in the narrow space between the sofa and the coffee table. It’s a bad habit to toe his shoes off there and Stiles knows he’ll get an earful from his dad when he—
But, no. He won’t.
Not anymore, he has to remind himself.
Funny how the brain can work like that.
It’s been days since the funeral. Longer since he’d boarded a plane back to Beacon Hills. Longer still since the call from the hospital had come in looking to talk to Noah Stilinski’s next of kin. He held his father’s cold hand through a viewing, listened to eulogies from deputies who took over when he was too choked up to say anything himself, and watched somber men ease the coffin onto a gussied up pit in the ground. Stiles has accepted it as much as a person can accept death, and yet still, still, still his brain will glitch, will wonder why his dad’s still not home yet, will plan out meals to prevent a heart attack that’s already happened.
Stiles isn’t going to cry because he’s been there, done that, and now he’s just numb. Numb and tired and probably massively dehydrated if the sticky, filmy gunk in the corners of his mouth is anything to go by. He’s not in the mood for much beyond staring blankly at the tv screen while it flickers through shows he barely notices, maybe making a dent in the cases of beer Scott had filled the bottom of the fridge with two days ago.
He’s sure as shit not in the mood to open the front door to see Peter Hale waiting on the porch, a bevy of reusable tote bags at his feet.
Read on ao3
“Get the fuck up, Stilinski!” Her voice grated at his nerves.
Stiles pulled his blankets over his head. “Leave me alone.”
Cora hale marched into his room, attempting to snatch his blankets from his body, but the edge was secured firmly in his clenched fists. “You wanted Hales; you got Hales, boyo. Now get up!”
Stiles could feel her staring as she stood there with her hands on her hips. “It was a misunderstanding. You can go.” He motioned towards the door from under his blanket.
“Nope.” She grabbed his ankle, tugging at it. He fell to the ground with a thump. “Your daddy dearest called, begging us to come back, and we’re here.” She looked at him; her eyes narrowed as he stayed hidden under his blanket. His wayward arm scrambling to find his damned hat.
Stiles pushed up, leaning against his bed. He scowled at her as he tugged his hat firmly onto his head before pushing the blanket down. “Not you.”
She huffed. “Derek!”
Stiles rolled his eyes, his head thumping against his bed railing. “Not sourwolf, too.”
More from the Steter fic I'm working on for @steter-bang - below the cut!
“Stiles, what is it you’re keeping secret from me? Tell me.”
The worst thing was that he said it gently. Like a doctor administering medicine that tasted terrible, reassuring you that it was good for you, that you needed it. His eyes were soft and bright, and Stiles hated this. He could feel the answer rising in him, surging like the tide and just as unstoppable. He clamped his jaw shut, trembling with the effort of fighting against his own mind. Peter watched avidly, his hand locked around Stiles’ wrist hot and hard and tight, just waiting for the words to spill out.
“You,” Stiles gritted out. But apparently that wasn’t enough; the words kept coming. “It’s you. I want you. Not Derek, not Scott. It’s you. I think about it all the fucking time, and I never would have told you that, not ever, so thanks, Peter. Thanks for that.”
There was something reassuring about experiencing the most humiliating moment of your entire life, Stiles thought. At least it meant there was nowhere to go but up. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, holding back the tears that still threatened to fall, and when he opened them again, Peter was staring at him with sharp eyes that glowed beta blue.
“When?” Peter asked. With a plummeting stomach, Stiles realized that Peter wasn’t letting him go. Wasn’t done with him.
“Peter,” he said, low and urgent. “Please. You got what you wanted.”
Peter’s eyes went unfocused for a second, and he breathed deeply as though he were inhaling the aroma of a fine wine. “If you—“ he said, then recovered himself, his focus snapping cleanly back onto Stiles’ quivering mouth. “When?” he asked again. “When did it start?”
The worst had already happened; everything else was just details. There was no point in fighting it anymore. Stiles let the words flow out of him like water.
“The lacrosse field,” Stiles said.
Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “Tell me,” he said sharply.
“We really need to have a conversation about consent sometime, Peter,” Stiles snapped.
“Tell me,” Peter said, his eyes flaring bright and his grip tightening. Stiles was probably going to bruise from this, and wasn’t that just typical.
“I begged you not to kill Lydia,” Stiles said. “On my knees.”
“I remember,” Peter breathed, and Stiles’ stomach did a low, twisting flip. Peter had moved closer, so close that Stiles could feel the heat of his breath against his face.
“You said, of course not. Of course not. You had blood dripping from your fangs, but you spoke to me like a man, and it—it just—“ Stiles couldn’t finish, couldn’t articulate what had happened that night when he’d fallen to his knees in front of a monster, heart hammering against his ribcage, and the monster had spoken with precise, articulated syllables that made Stiles think, oh my god.
Peter tilted his head, hawk-like. “I offered you the bite,” he said.
Stiles swallowed hard. “I wanted it,” he said, and hard, vicious triumph flashed over Peter’s face for just a moment.
“Do you still want it?” Peter asked. “Derek has never said anything about you asking him.”
Stiles shook his head. Peter hadn’t asked him why, but he was compelled to answer nonetheless; the spell was apparently not precise. “Don’t want it from Derek,” he said. “And you’re not an alpha anymore.”
Peter was very, very close to Stiles now, close enough for Stiles to feel the heat of his body, to breathe the scent of his aftershave. He leaned close, caging Stiles against the wall. “And if I were?” he asked.
“Peter,” Stiles said with a hitching breath, “I want your teeth in me any way I can get them.”
Fanart for @yogi-bogey-box `s amazing Fanfic magic to make the sanest man go mad on AO3! Please check it out, her writing is always amazing <3
Author summary:
Stiles has everything: two parents who love him, a giant Hale pack that adores him, a well of powerful magic, and a mate who would move heaven and earth for him. But when his mate is killed and their mate bond broken, it all comes crashing down. Determined to join Peter in death, Stiles tries to kill himself, calling on his magic to take him to his mate. But something goes awry and Stiles ends up in another dimension, where he finds a different kind of Peter. But first Stiles has to get him out of Eichen...
Author tags: Stiles Stilinski is Seventeen Years Old; Off screen MCD (in another dimension); Suicide Attempt; Cutting; Blood; Dimension Travel; Magical Stiles Stilinski; Spark Stiles Stilinski; Grief; Aftermath of Torture; Mates Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski; Soul Bond; Mating Bond; prison break - Freeform; Biting; Stiles Stilinski Has Panic Attacks; and they lived happily ever after; I promise it's not as awful as the tags suggest
All part of the @steter-bang - a big thank you to the mods for organizing this event!
