although this is rated T, warnings for light bondage and blindfolding. all kinks mentioned are pre-negotiated and safe, sane & consensual.
on ao3 here!
Allison’s calloused fingertips gently slide up Scott’s arms as she guides them above his head, until the backs of his hands are brushing against the headboard. After a moment, her weight shifts above his hips and cool, almost slippery fabric, brushes over his wrists. Allison takes his left wrist, while Stiles’ thicker fingers take his right, and as they start winding the scarves (or at least that’s what they feel like) around his wrists and the headboard, it becomes clear just how flimsy the fabric is, how easy it would be to tear through it.
But that’s not the point of this.
Once the bonds have been secured, Allison shifts up and off Scott’s body as Stiles’ fingers brush along Scott’s cheek, just underneath the edge of the tie they’re using as a makeshift blindfold.
“Still alright?” he asks. There’s a hint of sour anxiety hanging around him, but mostly he smells like arousal. The whole room does.
“Still green,” Scott nods, instinctively reaching out to run his fingers along Stiles’ before the gentle tug of the scarf reminds him of his current position.
“You’ll let us know if you want to stop,” Allison says, the question implicit in her tone. “What’s your safe word?”
Scott’s been mulling that over for days, since they first decided to try something like this out. He’s managed to narrow the list down to a few that are equally good, so he simply takes the first word from that list.
“Deaton.”
Stiles snorts.
“Works for me,” Allison says, leaning down to kiss his cheek. That’s followed by the sound of a zipper being dragged down; presumably the one on the back of her dress. It’s echoed moments later when Stiles drops his hands to the front of Scott’s jeans. “You ready?”
Scott nods and bites back a sigh as Stiles’ palm presses firmly against him.
here’s a future, human, different first meeting au! pre-relationship, Lydia/Scott is established.
approximately 2300 words. on ao3 here.
The first Friday in December is nearly identical to the eight Fridays that came before it.
Allison gets home from work just after six, her skin tacky with sweat from being jammed in a packed subway car for half an hour, hair damp from the snowflakes that have started to fall from the dark sky. As soon as she steps inside, she starts tugging off her winter clothes, leaving them piled in a heap on a chair in her small kitchen.
She strips out of her work clothes, drops them into her laundry hamper, and immediately pulls on another outfit, one a little more glamorous than the dark suits and printed blouses she wears to the law firm she spends her days at. She swaps out her earrings, puts on a fresh coat of mascara, stops in the kitchen only long enough to scarf down a banana, and ventures back into the cold evening, trench coat belted tightly around her waist to keep out the worst of the cold.
She takes the subway three stops and steps out into an entirely different district, all bright neon signs and honking cabs and lines of people stretching around the block. She bypasses the first two lines and stops at the third, which is considerably shorter. She’s been to this place four times so far, and it’s her favorite of all the bars and clubs she’s dropped into. It’s not absurdly high-class or exclusive, but it’s quieter. The lights are brighter and warmer, the drinks aren’t as pricey, and it’s usually not so crowded, probably because it’s not a favorite spot for visiting celebrities.
But while it may be one of her favorite environments to kill a few hours in, it’s failed to help her meet someone.
When she’d accepted the job offer that brought her to the city, she hadn’t thought twice about moving to a place where she knew absolutely no one. She figured that she’d have her coworkers, and she’d always been great at making friends when she’d moved around as a child.
But her coworkers had remained exactly that. They were all pleasant enough, but they were distant, caught up in their own lives. For the first few weeks, she’d been too busy to even think about finding friends outside of work. There was her apartment to unpack and decorate, family and friends from back home to keep updated, long days at the office to put in, landmarks and districts to explore. But once the weather turned cold and she began to properly settle in, she spent most nights sitting in front of her laptop or television, binge watching shows and movies until she fell asleep.
The feeling of isolation grew steadily in the back of her mind until one day, while she was cooking pasta for a late dinner, the sheer weight of it dropped onto her shoulders like a lead blanket.
She briefly thought about trying a dating app of some kind, but that wasn’t exactly the kind of relationship she was looking for, and all of her previous experiences with that kind of thing were laughable at best, horrifying at worst.
So instead, she turned her pasta off, dug into her closet, and instituted her new routine.
So far, it’s proved to be useless. None of her bar conversations have gone beyond painful small talk. Instead of being a way for her to make new acquaintances, every outing has just devolved into her wasting money on drinks, going home after four hours, washing off her makeup, taking an aspirin for her headache, convincing herself she won’t do it again, and then repeating each step the next Friday.
She thinks tonight might be the last time. It’s getting too cold to be going out, and her method obviously isn’t working. Maybe her time would be better spent combing through the newspaper for events to attend, or finding somewhere to volunteer.
At the very least, that would be cheaper on her wallet.
She’s four people away from the front of the line when a high-pitched ringing starts pouring from the door of the bar, overwhelming the faint sounds of music and laughter. The bouncer disappears inside for only a moment before he comes back outside and hollers at the top of his lungs.
“There’s a fire in the kitchen! Please move to the other side of the street.”
A collective groan rises up from the rest of the line, but Allison simply sighs and steps away from the bar, crossing the road before she’s swallowed up by the departing crowd. There are lots of other bars and clubs scattered up and down the street, but she strides past all of them, heeled boots kicking through the fluffy snow that’s accumulated on the sidewalk.
If there’s a clearer sign that she should try some other method of making friends, or maybe just give up entirely, she can’t think of it.
On her way back to the subway, her stomach starts rumbling, and she sighs again, glancing around at her surroundings. There’s food back at her apartment, but she definitely not in a cooking mood. There are a few fast food joints nearby, but there’s also a small diner on the corner ahead of her, glass windows bathing the sidewalk in soft yellow light. Booths line the other side of the glass, and the place looks surprisingly empty considering the time of night and the heavy foot traffic on the street. Allison beelines towards the door; even if the menu isn’t the greatest in the world, she could really use a cup of coffee.
It’s toasty inside, and the television bolted above the service area is playing a basketball game at low volume. A number of the stools marching along the curved counter are empty, and Allison takes one far away from the door, so that a draft doesn’t wind along her legs.
She orders coffee to start and flips through the menu, which is marked by tears and discolorations. She’s just taken her first sip and decided what to order when the stool beside her rattles as someone perches on it. She automatically glances over and ends up making eye contact with a woman around her own age with vibrant strawberry blonde hair streaming down her shoulders.
“This may seem like a strange question,” she says, glossed lips curved in a smile small, “and you are more than welcome to say no. But would you like to eat with us?” She waves a hand in the direction of the booths lining the front wall, and Allison glances back over her shoulder. The booth directly behind her is occupied by a young man with dark hair who seems preoccupied by his phone, but he suddenly glances up and smiles wide, crinkles forming at the corner of his eyes.
“Have we met before?” Allison asks with a slight frown, twisting back around to face the woman, who shakes her head.
“No. But you look lonely, and I know what that feels like. Both of us do. But, again, feel free to say no. If you say yes, you can leave at any time.” Allison averts her gaze into her inky cup of coffee, pondering the proposition. It’s certainly unexpected, and she’s more than a little wary about other possible motives that the woman and man could have. But she’s in a well-trafficked, public area. If anything goes wrong or if warning bells start going off in her head, she’ll retreat.
Even if it turns into nothing, good or bad, at the very least, she can tell herself that she tried something different, something totally outside of her routine.
“Sure,” she finally says, tossing her coat over one arm and gathering up her cup of coffee. “Why not?” The woman smiles wider, revealing two rows of straight white teeth, and slides off the stool.
“Perfect! I’m Lydia.”
“Allison.”
It takes four steps to cross from the counter to the booth. Allison joins Lydia on her side and once she’s rearranged her things, the young man reaches his hand across the table.
“Hey. I’m Scott.”
She gives her name again and briefly shakes his hand. Before she can say anything else, the waiter appears beside the booth, and the three of them order. Once the waiter disappears back towards the kitchen, Allison speaks up, cutting off the inevitable awkward silence before it gets a chance to sink in.
“Do you two do this often? Invite total strangers to eat with you, I mean.”
“Once in awhile,” Scott says with an easy shrug and a slightly crooked smile. “I usually let Lydia handle it. She’s better at knowing if someone wants to be left alone or if they’re looking for company. I think she might be a little psychic.”
“I’m not psychic,” Lydia says with a roll of her eyes, although the smile on her face indicates she’s not wholly bothered. “I just know how to read people.”
“Well, I’m still waiting for you to teach me.” He leans forward onto the table, clasped hands resting just to the left of an old ketchup stain, and addresses Allison again. “Are you okay with this? You can leave whenever you want.”
“I’m okay,” Allison replies. “Really. You’re basically the first people I’ve talked to in months that aren’t my co-workers.”
“I know that feeling,” Scott says. “When did you move here?”
By the time their food comes, they’ve settled into a conversation that, while not effortless, moves along fairly smoothly. Allison has found out that Scott and Lydia have been in the city for five years and living together for three. They met when Lydia had to rush her dog to the emergency veterinary clinic that Scott was working at and, apparently, there was no coming back from that. Both of them are very into volunteering; environmental groups for Lydia, animal rescue organizations for Scott, LGBTQ rights for both of them. They offer to give her the names and contact information of some of the associations that they work with, and Allison gratefully accepts.
She isn’t sure which organization she wants to contact first but, at the very least, her weekends won’t be so boring anymore.
Allison tells them a little bit about herself; where she works, the general area that she lives in, some of the bars she’s tried meeting people in. When she tells the name of the place she planned on visiting earlier, both of them burst out laughing. Although Allison immediately tenses, one glance at their faces, at the fond looks they’re giving each other, is enough to silence the thought that they’re mocking her.
“We went there on our third-”
“Our fourth,” Lydia interrupts, popping a blueberry from her pancakes into her mouth.
“Our fourth date,” Scott continues. “As soon as we stepped on the dance floor, the fire alarm went off.”
“Fire in the kitchen?” Allison grins.
“Fire in the kitchen,” Lydia and Scott say simultaneously before breaking out into more laughter.
“So you’re saying I should probably steer clear of there from now on?” Allison asks, raising her eyebrow.
“Definitely,” Lydia replies. “If you really want to keep hitting up bars, we can give you a list of some that don’t get a weekly visit from the fire department.”
“Actually,” Allison says, “I think I’m going to take a break from bars for awhile.”
She’s amazed at how truly she means it.
Once they’ve all polished off the rest of their food, they split the bowl of fruit that came with Allison’s breakfast platter; Scott takes the pineapple, Lydia the orange segments, and Allison keeps the berries. It’s the largest meal she’s had in months, and she feels like she could just slump over in the booth and nod off.
That is, if it wasn’t for Lydia sitting beside her. Allison’s pretty sure falling asleep on someone is only okay after months of friendship, and it’s possible that she won’t see Lydia or Scott again after they part ways.
She hopes that isn’t the case. After finally having dinner with someone else, eating alone seems completely overrated.
After they pay, they leave together. The sidewalks are now covered in a thick layer of snow, with still more falling from the sky. By morning, it will all be a trampled mess of brown slush, but it looks lovely now, sparkling under the streetlights.
“Wow,” Scott says, tilting his head back towards the sky. “It’s beautiful.”
“It is,” Lydia says, tugging a woven headband down over her ears and turning to Allison with a soft smile. “Do you want us to walk you to the subway?”
“It’s okay,” Allison replies. “I think I’ll be able to make it home.” She has a butterfly knife and a can of mace tucked into the inside pocket of her coat, just in case someone decides to try and test their luck with her.
“I have an idea,” Scott says, fumbling his phone from the pocket of his jacket. “Do you want to add your number? I can text you so you have mine, and you can let us know when you get home safe.”
“Or if you want to go out for dinner again,” Lydia adds and, for a moment, Allison thinks that she sees an honest to goodness flush stain Lydia’s pale cheeks. Allison quickly ducks her head, warmth rushing into her own face, as she takes Scott’s phone and flips to the contacts menu.
“I’d really like that, actually,” she says quietly, and when she looks up, the crinkles around Scott’s eyes are back in full force.
“Agreed,” he says after glancing at Lydia, and his smile grows larger, bright as the moon on a clear night.
Allison doesn’t want to be presumptuous, doesn’t want to get her hopes up too far in case everything comes crashing back down, but she thinks that the bar’s kitchen catching fire might truly be the best thing that’s happened to her in the last few months.
Braeden/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall
Rating: G, Word Count: 860
Bookstore AU, Human AU, Pining Scott, Polyamory, POV Scott
♥
Read on AO3
For Teen Wolf Bingo prompt: Bookstore AU
Scott nervously drums his fingers on the counter by the register, then stands on his tiptoes so he can see over the book display in the front window, and checks the parking lot. Stiles snorts from where he’s restocking the cookbooks. Scott flips him off while searching for his two favourite motorcycles. The motorcycles are gorgeous, shiny and running much better than his own third-hand dirt bike, but it’s their owners he’s really interested in.
Isaac and Braeden usually come in around five every Saturday and Sunday. They browse, make small talk, buy a book, then leave. On the surface, Scott’s interactions with them don’t seem that different from the ones he has with most other customers, except that they always greet him by name when they come in, beautiful, radiant smiles on their faces. Braeden throws him winks whenever she catches him staring at her, and Isaac has a habit of turning every other sentence into an innuendo or a pick-up line. Last week, when Scott was taking inventory in the back, Stiles had called him to the front, because Isaac refused to be helped by anyone but Scott. That could just be because Isaac and Stiles had a weird feud going on that Scott doesn’t really understand, but he likes to think it was because Isaac likes him. When they’d left, Braeden had let her fingers linger on the Scott’s hand when he gave her change, and said, ‘Well see you next weekend.’
It was the first time that either of them acknowledged that their trips to the bookshop were planned, and that means something, doesn’t it?
But now, at half past five, Scott’s not so sure anymore. Braeden and Isaac have been pretty punctual so far, but now the black and yellow bikes are nowhere to be seen.
‘Maybe they just have some sort of family thing,’ Stiles tries to cheer him up. ‘I’m sure they’ll be here tomorrow.’
Yeah, Scott thinks. That’ll be it.
He spends the last half hour before closing listlessly tidying up his little space at the register. When the last customer leaves, he shoos Stiles out the door.
‘I’ll close up. You go have fun with Derek,’ he says.
‘Are you sure?’ Stiles frowns at Scott’s morose expression. ‘Well, just keep your inhaler close when you’re dusting.’
‘That was one time,’ Scott grumbles, closing the door in Stiles face and sticking his tongue out at the cheery wave his friend gives him.
After making one more round through the store to make sure everyone’s out, Scott turns up the music and goes in search off the duster and the vacuum. He has a system when cleaning. He starts at the front of the store, with all the notebooks and calendars, and makes his way to the back, checking for books that need to be restocked or have been misplaced by browsing customers as he goes. He’s counting how many copies of The Colour of Magic they still have on the shelf, when there’s a cough behind him. He jumps almost a foot in the air and presses a hand to his heart.
‘Jeez, Stiles, I didn’t you could be so… quiet,’ Scott trails off when he finds Isaac and Braeden standing behind him instead of his friend, twin smirks on their faces and bumping fists at having scared the shit out of him.
‘We’re not Stiles,’ Isaac says.
‘No. I can see that,’ Scott says, flushing a little. He really hopes he hadn’t been dancing. Or singing. Oh god, had he been singing? ‘How did you get in?’
‘The sign still says open and your door’s unlocked,’ Braeden says, pointing over her shoulder in the direction of the door.
‘Oh shit,’ Scott mumbles. He quickly walks to the front, checking for any other possible customers hiding between the stacks, then locks the door. He turns back to Isaac and Braeden. ‘So, what are you doing here?’
‘Someone,’ Braeden looks pointedly at Isaac, ‘broke our washing machine this morning, and the laundromat was a little busy.’
Isaac shrugs apologetically. ‘We figured we’d drop by to see if maybe you were still open. And we, uhm…’
‘What?’ Scott says. He holds his breath as he looks from Braeden to Isaac.
‘We wanted to know if you’d get dinner with us,’ Braeden says. ‘As a date.’
Scott grins widely. All the questions and hopes swirling around in his head since the first time the couple stepped into the store answered.
‘I’d love to. Give me fifteen minutes.’
He races to finish cleaning up, deciding to come a little early the next day to restock, vacuum and do the dishes in the breakroom. By the time he’s fumbling for his keys to let them all out of the store, he’s panting a little and his cheeks are flushed.
‘So where are we going?’ he asks.
‘Oh, we know a great Italian place. Low lighting, good food,’ Braeden says.
‘Long tablecloths,’ Isaac adds with a wink.
‘Sounds great,’ Scott smirks, delighted by the way Isaac’s eyes widen and Braeden smirks back. He finally has the door open and gestures for them to step outside. ‘Lead the way.’
Allison/Kira/Erica + "It's okay. I couldn't sleep anyway."? :)
here’s 1,100 words of sick!fic fluff! warnings for emetophobia. on ao3 here!
Kira wakes up to a pitch-black room.
There’s not even a hint of sunlight coming through the cracks around their thick curtains, which means it has to be early, but beyond that, Kira doesn’t know if it’s been two hours since she fell asleep or if it’s been six. Allison and Erica are solid, motionless lines of heat on either side of her, their soft, steady breathing the only sign that they’re still alive. Their blanket is draped over Kira’s calves and as far as she can tell, there’s no strange noises in the apartment. For all intents and purposes, it seems like a normal night, completely void of any surprises or unexpected stimuli.
But when her head clears slightly, she realizes that while the room’s atmosphere may be normal, the way that her stomach is churning definitely isn’t.
She kicks the blanket away and stumbles off the bed, feet momentarily skidding in a pile of empty clothes. The heel of her palm slams into the doorknob as she gropes for it, but thankfully, from there, it’s a straight shot across the hallway into the bathroom, where there’s a nightlight plugged in beside the sink. There’s also a soft, plush rug that covers half of the floor and Kira drops onto this just as the churning abruptly moves out of her stomach and up into her throat.
Once she’s done throwing up (for now, at least), she flushes and shuffles across the floor to the bathtub, so that she can run some water to brush against her overheated face. A drink from the tap would probably feel even better, but her whole body feels heavy, weighed down like it’s draped with shackles, and just sitting up onto her knees to reach the sink feels impossible. She’s somehow both hot and cold at the same time, sweat beading on her brow while shivers course up her back, and she plunks her head back against the tub with a groan.
It’s either food poisoning or the start of a bout with the flu. Neither option is better than the other.
She’s debating between crawling back to bed or curling up on the bathroom rug when she hears footsteps across the hall. She squints into the darkness and long, pale legs come into form, cutting off at a pair of pale pink pajama shorts.
“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” Kira says as Erica drops to her knees beside her. Her hair is loose and messy, straggling around her face, and there’s a little bit of mascara smeared under her eyes.
“It’s okay,” Erica replies with a soft smile, voice still raspy with sleep. “I was awake anyways.” It’s the furthest thing from the truth, but Kira doesn’t bother protesting. She tries her best to return the smile, wincing at the horrible taste in her mouth.
“I think I might have eaten something bad,” she says and, just like that, her stomach lurches again and she lunges across the small room, making it just in time. Through the haze, she feels Erica’s hand fall to her back, rubbing in gentle circles as she says it’s okay over and over again. Thankfully, the second bout is shorter and she collapses back against Erica’s chest, face clammy, throat sore.
“I hate this,” she groans.
“I know,” Erica murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Kira’s head. Before Kira can respond, more footsteps come from the hallway. Allison steps into the room, eyes squinted nearly shut, the indent of a pillow still pressed into her cheek. There’s a full bottle of water in her hands and although it’s definitely room temperature, Kira doesn’t think she’s ever seen anything more beautiful in her entire life.
“Here,” Allison mumbles, sliding into the space between Erica and the sink. She pops the cap off before passing it to Kira, who forces herself to drink slow, so she doesn’t go through yet another round of getting sick. She drinks half the bottle before slumping further back against Erica. She doesn’t feel like she’s burning up anymore, but the shivers are still in full force and her sweat is just beginning to dry, tacky against her skin.
“I’m sorry I woke you both up,” she murmurs, letting her eyes drop closed.
“Don’t be,” Allison replies. Water runs a few feet to Kira’s right and Allison presses a cool cloth against her forehead.
“I’m going to call Isaac and tell him I’m taking the day off,” Erica says, brushing Kira’s lank hair away from her face. “And don’t bother telling me not to. We’re here to take care of you, okay?”
“Okay,” Kira mumbles. She’s pretty sure that she could fall asleep exactly where she is, but if she’s going to be going through a revolving cycle of cold shivers and hot flashes, she wants to be somewhere more comfortable, with a blanket and a fan. “Can you help me to the living room?”
“Of course,” Allison says, easily scooping Kira up under her shoulders and knees, fast enough to make her stomach churn for a moment. She carries Kira to the living room and gently lowers her to the couch, flicking on one of their lamps on the way. Kira immediately settles herself back against the cushions, drawing herself up into a ball. Through the gauzy curtains hanging over their balcony door, Kira can see just the barest hint of a sunrise, purple and pink leeching into the sky.
Erica comes into the room a few moments later, carrying a soft blanket, an oversized hoodie (which used to be Stiles’) and their mop bucket.
“Just in case,” she says, setting the bucket on the floor and handing Kira the rest. Kira pulls the blanket over her for the time being; it’ll be easier to shrug off when the shivering inevitably turns back into sweating. Erica settles into the couch beside her, props her feet on the coffee table and grabs the TV remote and the controller for their game console.
“What do you want to watch?” she asks, yawning loudly.
“You pick,” Kira says, resting her head on the arm of the sofa and stretching her feet out into Erica’s lap.
By the time Allison comes back into the room, Kira is nearly asleep. She manages to pull herself back from the brink and crack her eyes open in time to see Allison set another bottle of water and some light snacks on the coffee table.
“For when you wake up,” she says with a soft smile, leaning over to press her lips against Kira’s forehead. “Get some rest.”
“Okay,” she mumbles, closing her eyes again. “Love you.”
@nevergooutofstiles asked for Braeden/Derek/Stiles with America’s Sweetheart - Elle King
Braeden/Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating:G, Word Count: 733
Fluff, Polyamory, Fluff Without Plot, POV Stiles
♥
Read On AO3
Stiles stands frozen, unable to take his eyes off the scene in the kitchen. When he regains the use of his limbs, he backs away carefully, making no sound on his stockinged feet, back to the bedroom.
‘Braeden,’ Stiles hisses in her ear and pokes her in her side.
He should know better. He should know better than to startle awake a US Marshall turned supernatural bounty hunter. Braeden slams her forearm against his chest, pushing Stiles into the mattress, then swings one leg over his waist so she’s straddling him. In the flurry of movement she even manages to get hold of Stiles’ wrists and pins them over his head.
‘Morning, babe,’ Stiles grins up at her. She hates it when he calls her that.
Braeden rolls her eyes, but still presses a quick kiss to his forehead. ‘Why are you waking me up at—’ she squints at the clock ’—eight in the morning on a Saturday? Damn it, Stiles!’
‘It’s not my fault! Derek is freaking me out,’ Stiles protests.
Braeden only now seems to notice that their boyfriend is missing from the bed. She lets go of Stiles, jumping off him and out of bed. Stiles scrambles after her, then grabs her wrist to pull her to the kitchen.
Braeden goes completely still when she sees what is happening in the kitchen.
Derek is dancing. To a song. On the radio. It doesn’t end there, though, he’s singing and whistling along to it.
‘What do you want from me. I'm not America's sweetheart. But you love me anyway.’
‘What’s he doing?’ Braeden whispers, pulling Stiles out of hearing distance from Derek.
‘I think he’s making breakfast muffins.’
‘Hmm.’ Braeden sneaks forward again to watch Derek. Stiles is right behind her, pressing himself against her back to look over her shoulder.
‘My kind of medicine is whiskey straight. I got a mouth to put you in your place, and they. They said I'll never be the poster type. But they don't make posters of my kind of life.’
Stiles watches in fascination as Derek sways his hips from side to side in time with the music. He always knew Derek would have moves.
‘So kick out the jams, kick up the soul.’
Derek places the tray with the muffins in the oven, and kicks the door shut. He presses start, then turns to look directly at Stiles and Braeden, raising his eyebrows.
‘Pour another glass of that rock and roll. Turn up the band, fire in the hole. Gonna lose control tonight.’
Waggling his eyebrows, Derek dances towards them. Stiles can’t help smiling at the ridiculous sight. Braeden huffs out a fond laugh. When he reaches them, Derek grabs one hand from each of them, pulls them into the kitchen, and twirls them. Braeden easily spins underneath Derek’s arm, but Stiles is too tall and has to hunch to avoid hitting Derek’s arm with his head. Stiles can’t hold in his laughter.
And just like that, Stiles gets it. He gets why Derek is like this, right now, because Stiles is feeling the same, almost overwhelming, happiness. It makes him feel light, and safe, and giddy
On the next twirl, Stiles trips over his own feet and crashes into Derek’s chest. Derek fumbles to keep them upright. Braeden’s loud laughter fills the kitchen, when she is the one that ends up holding them both up.
‘So how long until those muffins are done?’ Braeden asks, as Stiles and Derek find their footing again.
‘Twenty five minutes. And then they have to cool down for a bit before we can eat them.’
‘Then we can dance a little longer,’ Braeden grins. She pulls Derek against her chest, grabbing Stiles’ t-shirt to pull him against her back, with her other hand.
Stiles immediately nuzzles into her hair. She smells nice, like sleep and the fresh sheets they had to put on last night. When he lifts his head, Braeden quickly turns her head to plant a kiss against his cheek. Stiles catches Derek’s eye, and the other man looks so soft, hair still sleep mussed and a smile on his face, that Stiles’ heart stumbles.
They’re not swaying to the music, really. It’s just a slow, private sway, disconnected from anything else in the universe. It’s just for them.
‘You love me anyway. You love me anyway. I’m not America’s sweetheart.’
cora/violet (/garrett, if that's your thing) + orphans finding each other?
also using this for the ‘I know you’ square on my Rare Character Bingo Card! Cora is meant to be about 15 in this.
warnings for: mentioned character death (the Hale Fire) and mentions of a dead animal (for eating purposes).
on ao3 here.
Cora follows the smell of meat to a clearing at the edge of the forest.
She doesn’t know how long it’s been since she last ate. Her stomach is hollow, gnawing at her with vicious, sharp teeth; all her attempts to catch game have been thwarted by her own weakness. Each step is more and more of a struggle and it takes every ounce of determination that she has to keep her nose tilted towards the air, following the scent.
It’s the first time in hours (days? a week?) that she can smell something that isn’t gasoline and soot.
She doesn’t bother trying to sneak into the clearing; she’s long past that point. She stumbles into the light, eyes fixed on the spit of meat dangling over a small campfire. The sight of the flames makes her skin crawl, but she’s so hungry.
She dives across the clearing, fingers already aching to tear the tender meat off the bones, but she’s stopped by a strong arm slamming into her chest. If she were in peak condition, it would be nothing to her, but now, it’s enough of a deterrent that she stops and snarls, showing all of her undoubtedly filthy teeth.
“Whoa there.” The person that the arm is connected to looks to be about her age; he’s blonde, with short hair, well-groomed, dressed in clean clothes. He’s grinning at her, showing perfectly straight, white teeth that she wants to knock from his mouth.
If she tried hard enough, she thinks that she could rip his arm off.
“Are you hungry?” This voice comes from behind her and Cora whips her head around. There’s a girl standing just at the edge of the firelight, a long-bladed knife glinting in her hand. She’s just as clean as the boy; her long, shiny black hair dangles down over her shoulders and there’s a strip of clean brown skin showing between the hem of her crop top and her dark jeans.
Cora nods. Her claws dig into her legs as the smell of meat grows stronger. Thankfully, before she has to wait much longer, the girl crosses the clearing and uses the knife to cut a long strip of well-done meat from the top of the carcass. It looks like it’s deer, but frankly, Cora wouldn’t care if it was porcupine or squirrel.
She’s just so hungry.
She devours the first strip of meat, and the next, and the next, not wincing when it burns her fingertips or scorches down her throat. She eats until her stomach is full and her body feels solid again, feels like something stronger than a mere wisp. Once she’s done, she backs away from the fire, until she can just barely feel the heat coming from it.
“What’s your name?”
It’s the girl that asks. She’s still holding the knife, absently twirling it between her fingers in a way that Cora is intrinsically wary of. Still, they fed her; it’s the least she can do to answer.
Besides, she feels like she could take them now, if she had to.
“Cora,” she grunts, tucking her filthy hands into her lap. “You?”
“Violet. That’s Garrett,” she says, nodding her head at the boy, who is slicing more meat off the carcass and putting it in a bag. He looks up and smiles, but after only a second, his blinding grin morphs into something more restrained, more thoughtful.
“Wait,” he says quietly. “I know you. You’re a Hale, aren’t you?”
Cora’s hackles immediately go up and her claws dig into the dirt underneath her. She nods warily, ready to spring across the clearing and rip out the boy’s throat if he had anything to do with the disaster that tore her entire family away from her.
“How’d you know that?” she asks, her voice rough and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.
“We saw the flames. Read the paper last time we were in town,” Garrett says. “They said the entire family died.”
Phantom screams fill Cora’s ears and she digs her claws into her palms until blood drips from between her fingers.
“You’re an orphan now,” Violet says, crossing the clearing and dropping down until she’s crouching just in front of Cora. Slowly, she reaches one hand out and rests it on Cora’s knee, squeezing gently.
“You’re like us,” she says quietly. Her eyes are hard as flint and her mouth is set in a firm, straight line.
“Welcome to the family,” Garrett says, eyes and mouth mirroring Violet’s.
That’s all the evidence Cora needs to know that Violet and Garrett really are like her, that they’ve seen the same kind of meaningless violence that she has.
She wonders if they hunted down the people who wronged them and tore them to pieces.
Synthetic animals like me never have a home
I'm not the one you will be walking through
And if you kill him for me
Well, then I'll kill him for you
on a good day, Jennifer thinks she understands just why she lets Kali and Kate stick around.
on a bad day, it takes every ounce of willpower she has to not rip their throats out.
but regardless of what kind of day it is, a threat to one of them is a threat to all of them, and Jennifer is starting to lose track of how much blood her she's soaked her hands in.
(she knows that she should probably care about that. but she has more important things to worry about, like deciding whether or not to let her werecreatures kill each other the next time they get in a fight).
(created for the ‘Jennifer/Kali/Kate’ square on my Teen Wolf Bingo Card.)
