Swords Drawn at Dawn ✒️

Sheriff Stilinski just wants a headcount for dinner. Instead, he gets front-row seats to Stiles threatening Derek, Derek denying soulmates exist, and perhaps the most gloriously awkward proposal in history.

Read HERE

I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

-Song of Achilles

Dean sees a stripped cedar tree and chops it down, thinks:

You were that tree, strong and ancient, felled in one stroke; felt so strongly in me was the love of that strike

Nature's greed knows no bounds, I am a monstrous thing

Caressed, were you, by constant storms— roots greedily drinking the cold rain

Sharing in that biting pain, the Lord won't forgive me my trespasses

In my naivety, I happily bent your limbs into a cruel, gnarled shape

Ensnared in this trap, you were struck; there was nothing left to stop the forewarned tragedy

Your final words, I found, carved into me

Chest pried open, heart in hand, ribs cracked in half, begging for an audience to witness– your sacrifice, my obscenity

Written, there are claims that loving isn't in the having, but the knowing—

that you'd die for me in secrecy is the reason for this darkness. Your absence leaves the woods empty

Living in privation is purgatory, take my penance, and help me repent

They told us that love is patience, that it is kind

But patience greets another congregation. Kindness is a dreamt encounter.

Heard so suddenly was the silence that followed the end to your internal clocks' incessant ticking

I did not want your suffering, your loudness, your ache

I yearn for it now

Time was wasted, spent living in my bent shape, I picture you now, and I ache

my storm struck you, and the darkness has grown around us both

I took your life from me when your wants gave their first and final breath

I miss you before I even get to kiss you

and everyone is posting their 4th of july manis

except this year its very few american flags and red white and blue and stars.

and a LOT of pond scum inspiration

Can’t get away from him even on sabbatical 🙂‍↔️ (inspo under the cut)

When Dennis emerged from the bathroom, clean and dressed, he found Robby sitting on the couch, glasses on his nose, a book in his hand. He was nestled into the corner of the cushions and the armrest, one elbow thrown over the back, his ankle crossed over his knee. Relaxed. Comfortable. Reading. An entirely normal activity. Mundane, even. Dennis’ face warmed anyway, because apparently he was incapable of seeing Robby just exist without blushing now. He filed this reaction away in the same place as his question of faith, amid the buzz of static and the unhurried intention to define these things eventually, just… later. 

The Car's in Reverse, ch. 28, by third_crow ( @itsfrthebirds )

happy pride to this TCIR scene!

Currently at the "they make me SICK" stage of the shipping journey (especially smitter Robby, control yourself old man!)

mindless fidget

Stiles is nervous because he accidentally sent Peter intimate photos

everything ends well

Oooh, cool prompt! I almost feel bad to give such a short fill, but I really appreciate having some prompts that are quick and fun. 😀

-

When Stiles realizes what he’s done, he checks his sent messages a dozen times in the desperate hope that, somehow, the results will change. But no matter how many times he looks, he’s still sent his attempt at sexy photos to Peter Hale instead of his friend Petra, who is in his upper level mythology class and taking an photography elective.

Peter is not likely to give the same gentle critique Petra had promised.

Stiles spends almost an hour periodically checking his phone and swallowing nausea before Peter’s response arrives.

I assume I wasn’t the intended recipient of those. Perhaps a little quid pro quo will make you feel better.

Stiles had a second to wonder what Peter means by ‘quid pro quo’ before the next message arrives.

It’s a photo. Of Peter.

In his underwear.

Stiles’s mouth goes dry. There’s no creative lighting, no special backdrop or props, but somehow this simple picture is blisteringly hot. Stiles can’t help but notice that Peter isn’t entirely soft. And he’d taken this after looking at Stiles’s pictures.

Of course, Peter sends, You sent more than one. Shall I continue?

Stiles shrugs out of his hoodie and leaves it draped over the back of Peter’s couch. Peter looks up, exasperated, but when he catches sight of Stiles he stops abruptly, then blows out a hard breath. “Okay, I concede, I have to ask. Are you doing it on purpose?”

“Doing what on purpose?” Stiles asks innocently. Throwing his clothes around is definitely on purpose, but he’s not going to admit it.

“The red,” Peter says. 

Okay, that’s unexpected. Stiles just gives him a blank look.

“The red clothes,” Peter nods at Stiles’s shirt. “You wear red clothes far more than average. Is it on purpose?”

“I… like red?” Stiles offers. 

Peter rolls his eyes. “Little Red Riding Hood, Stiles.”

“Oh!” A laugh bursts out of Stiles. “No, not on purpose. It is kind of thematically appropriate though, isn’t it?” He grins. “I guess that makes you the big bad wolf.”

Peter arches an eyebrow. “Not Derek?”

Stiles scoffs. “Derek might like to act big and bad, but we both know he’s a marshmallow.”

Peter’s smile is pleased. He likes being the big bad one. 

Stiles sits on the hard, narrow bunk, head in his hands. Tomorrow he’ll work on surviving, on finding a way out of this place, but for right now he needs a minute to process the fact that this has somehow happened again. 

After everything that the pack has been through with Eichen House, Stiles never imagined they’d let anyone be admitted there again, nevermind one of their own. He’d thought the worst thing that could come of studying magic behind Deaton’s back was a stern lecture. 

Instead, Stiles is “a threat to himself and others.” According to Deaton, Eichen is the only place that has a chance of containing him.

Stiles will never forget how quickly Scott allowed himself to be convinced.

So yeah. He’s got some friendships to mourn. He can only hope they didn’t consult his dad on locking him up; Stiles hasn’t seen him since the pack turned on him.

“Stiles.” Stiles’s head jerks up; he stares in shock at Peter Hale standing outside his cell. He’s shifted, and his hands are bloody from claws to elbows. He opens Stiles’s cell with a blood spattered key. “Time to go,” Peter says, holding the door open.

Stiles hurries out, following after Peter when he starts down the hall. “My dad—?”

“He’s doing what he can to cover our tracks,” Peter says, and relief sweeps through Stiles. “Your admission here was far from official, which helps, but I had to kill a few more people than I hoped, which might complicate things.”

“We might be able to clean up some of that after the fact,” Stiles says, already thinking of spells to dissolve bodies and Eichen House’s less than pristine record keeping.