Tired. Gay. Emo.

Tagged by the brilliant trifecta of @dear-massacre @beaconfeels @punchedbymarkesmith. What an honor.

I haven't shared any real content about my Stisaac fic that I'm writing for the Teen Wolf rarepair mini bang other than it is getting wildly out of hand in terms of length and how long it took to get to awkward hand jobs. But, when the writing bug hits...

So, the whole set up here is: what would change if Isaac went to live with the Stilinski's after his dad died? Because you know I just can't write snark4snark porn without 10k of backstory first:

Isaac jerks awake, and looks around the dark room, disorientated. He checks his phone: it’s 3:47 a.m. He flops back down on his pillow, trying to remember what he was dreaming about that would have startled him awake like that when he hears Stiles cry out across the room. He lays still, waiting, and then Stiles yells again.

Well, that explains what woke him up. He takes a deep breath, hoping that whatever it is, it will pass, but Stiles yells again, and starts thrashing in his blankets, too. Isaac rubs at his eyes, and pulls himself out of bed, crossing the few feet between his and Stiles’ bed.

“Hey, hey, Stiles,” Isaac says softly, shaking his shoulder the same way that Stiles shakes him when he has a nightmare. “It’s okay. You’re in your room.”

Stiles’ eyes fly open, and he sits up with a gasp, breathing heavily. He looks around, like he’s expecting to be somewhere else, or expecting Isaac to be someone else.

“Isaac?”

“Yeah, sorry. You were yelling in your sleep,” Isaac says, stepping away from Stiles’ bed.

“No,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, but it’s fine,” Isaac says.

“No, I mean,” Stiles hesitates, but Isaac can still see fear in his eyes. Whatever he was dreaming about, whatever happened earlier today is clearly not okay.

“Your dad is on the night shift tonight,” Isaac reminds him, “but I can call him if––”

“No,” Stiles says again. “Can you,” another pause, and a deep breath, “stay?”

“Stay?”

“Here.”

“I’m right over there.” Isaac points to his bed, on the other side of the room.

“I know, but. Please?”

He looks at Stiles for a long time, searching his face for a hint of a wink or a joke. But all he sees is fear in his eyes.

“Uh, sure,” he finally agrees, and carefully slides into the bed next to Stiles.

They lay there for a minute, both of them on their backs, careful to keep a sliver of space between their bodies, both staring up at the ceiling.

“You know how we’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on with that lizard-creature thing?” Stiles says after a while. “It found us at the school and it has this venom or something that can paralyze you temporarily.”

Isaac still doesn’t say anything. He isn’t even sure if Stiles is telling him this, or just needs to say it out loud. His voice is sort of monotone, and oddly detached as he continues.

“It got Derek and he fell into the pool and couldn’t swim, and I almost didn’t get to him in time. And the — Derek says it’s a Kanima, whatever that is — was just prowling around the edge. I had to hold him so his head was out of the water, and I couldn’t get to the edge. I almost couldn’t. We were both fully clothed and I was trying to tread water and keep him up.”

His voice cracks and Isaac moves before he can even think about it. He reaches out and pulls Stiles against his chest, and wraps his arms around him in a hug. Stiles lets out something between a sigh and a sob and seems to go boneless against Isaac, his breath ragged and uneven.

“I thought we wouldn’t make it,” Stiles whispers into Isaac’s chest.

Isaac rubs a hand over Stiles’ back, not saying anything at all, but doing his best to comfort him, doing what he’d always wished someone had done for him. After a few minutes, Stiles’ breathing evens out, then changes into something deep and even, and Isaac realizes that he’s fallen back to sleep.

They are both tall and mostly limbs and Isaac has no idea what to do with his right arm, or Stiles’ left, or either of their legs, but he doesn’t want to move them. So he tries to get as comfy as he can, and then he lets himself be pulled back to sleep to the rise and fall of Stiles’ chest against his own.

It feels like only minutes later, that Isaac is brutally yanked out of sleep by two things happening almost simultaneously: one, both his and Stiles’ phone alarms are blaring two clashing songs to wake them up for school (Stiles’ is the theme to The Muppet Show, and Isaac’s is the opening riff to Thunderstruck); and two, Stiles is yelling “what the fuck, dude!” and pushing Isaac out of his bed.

He throws out his arms, and manages to catch on to the bed enough that he sort of slowly tumbles out rather than falling flat on his back, but he still sits up and yells back, “What do you mean what the fuck? Why the fuck are you pushing me off the bed?”

“Why the fuck are you in my bed?” Stiles yells back.

“Because you fucking asked me to be, you asshole,” Isaac yells.

They both stare at each other, Isaac glaring from the floor, Stiles clutching his blanket to his chest despite the fact that he is fully clothed in a t-shirt and sweatpants. A look of realization crosses his face, and his eyes widen as seems to remember the series of events that led to Isaac sharing his bed.

He winces and has decency to look slightly ashamed. “Sorry,” he mumbles, finally silencing the alarm on his phone.

“Whatever,” Isaac snaps, pulling himself up off the floor and storming off to the bathroom, his phone still blaring. Stiles can deal with it.

He’s half way through his shower when he notices that he’s half hard. He can’t remember the last time he woke up with morning wood, and he decides to focus on washing his hair instead of examining what may have caused this change too closely.

Stiles pushes into the bathroom the second Isaac leaves, and they both finish the rest of their morning routine in a prickly silence that follows them into the Jeep and lays under the now familiar sounds of Sleigh Bells filling the car. And even though they share a few classes and apparently now eat together, Stiles doesn’t say anything to him the rest of the school day.

Tagged by the lovely @dear-massacre! Life is garbage lately, so I let myself take a break from my fanfic hiatus and started writing something for Triangle Week. I don't think I'll be done in time, but... enjoying writing this for now. I wanted to explore both the John/Dean implications behind Dean being attracted to early seasons Cas and also what Cas would do if he looked into Dean's thoughts/memories and saw the Wincestuousness going on in there.

“There’s gotta be somebody around here for you. I’m not letting you die a virgin,” Dean says for the second time that night, only this time, he’s hammered enough for the room to get fuzzy around the edges as he scans the bar for viable prospects. 

“There is no one I desire here nor do I care to find someone. It is of little concern to me,” Cas says, and maybe Dean is just drunk, but judging from the way Cas’s cheeks get pink and he looks down at their booth table, it seems like he does indeed care.

Dean’s arm is around Cas’s shoulder, hauling him in close in that imitation of male camaraderie that’s really an excuse to get close enough to feel a guy’s breath on your lips. 

Dean remembers the first time a man did that to him, the scary confusion of it, that moment when he wasn’t sure yet what was happening, wasn’t about to take the gamble and end up with a fist in his face instead of a kiss. It’s a risk he likes, not knowing how it will go, and that’s probably some sort of sickness, but hasn’t risk been the theme of Dean’s life? In hunting, there are no guarantees, and being raised in that Russian roulette must have activated something inside him. He needed a way to take that fear and turn it into the addictive kind of adrenaline, the kind that comes from a quick, dirty fuck in the bathroom with a stranger. 

Dean stares at Cas’s lips, mere inches from his own and parted slightly like a question, an invitation that can’t quite decide what it wants to be, and it’s like all of those clandestine encounters are flashing across his mind. 

Dean, fifteen and sneaking into a bar not unlike the one he’s in right now. Sticky tables and an even stickier floor. A man too old for him, hands too calloused, face too smoke-wrinkled, a gravel-rough drawl that reminded him of his dad. One arm around Dean just like this, one hand on his thigh, big enough to make Dean’s leg feel small beneath its warmth. 

Later, in the alley behind the bar, a sickly yellow halo of light ringing them both, the man pushed Dean to his knees and coaxed his mouth open. As Dean choked on his cock, all he could think about was the veins in the hand that kept stroking his hair, his cheek, his chest, how much those veins looked like his dad’s and how much he liked it. It didn’t make sense. Dean didn’t want his father like that, had never thought of him that way. It was about comfort, safety, familiarity, the resemblance to an authority he could follow to either salvation or the grave. It was about an older man’s hand cupping the back of his head with some mixture of tenderness and force, steering him in a direction that Dean only had to follow eagerly. No need to think, no need to plan. It was about having a man like that tell him he was good, so good, good fuckin’ boy.

It wasn’t something he could explain to anyone in a way they would understand. 

Yeah, it’s a sickness alright. But Dean’s never cared much for chasing a cure for things that can’t be undone. You can’t rip out the diseases braided into your DNA, sewn like those sutures that dissolve in the body over time. You can only treat it. Take your medicine and control the symptoms.

“Dean?” Cas says, inquisitive with those big unblinking eyes, voice low and gravel-rough just like every man Dean’s ever let plunder his throat. 

Well… not every man. 

The fucked up reel of highlights clicking through Dean’s mind fast forwards to three years after that man in the alley. Dean with his brother on a park bench, letting him take a few puffs on a joint for the first time, arm around him in that sensuous trap, a trap Dean didn’t even know he was setting until he said, “It’ll burn less this way. C’mere,” exhaling smoke into Sam’s open mouth, Sammy’s eyes going wet and wide and then—

Jesus fucking Christ. Dean closes his eyes and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyelids, trying to expel the thoughts before he’s gone too far down that road. Once his mind ventures in far enough, it’s a gridlock of memories, no space left to run any which way he turns. 

“Dean? Are you alright?”

Dean opens his eyes to see a brow-furrowed Castiel, and while it’s usually hard to tell what he’s thinking, Cas seems genuinely concerned right now, soft in a way Dean isn’t sure he’s ever seen from him before. Dean hates it. He wants the gruffness back, the firm hand to guide him. The Cas who growled, “You should show me some respect.”

“Let’s get out of here, huh, whaddaya say?” The alcohol has rounded the edges of Dean’s words, and when he puts his hand on Cas’s thigh, curls his fingers around the muscle, tries to make it as unmistakable a gesture as he can, Cas’s eyes follow the movement, that slightly parted mouth falling all the way open.

“Yes,” Cas says. Hoarse and shy. Like his throat is parched and Dean is the only thing he needs to quench his thirst.

I haven't done one of these in soooooo long, so -- let's go! A li'l snippet from the Kolacic teacher Ivan/student Lovro fic I'm currently working on 😊

-

Echoes of bouncing basketballs thunder just beyond a set of carefully closed doors, every impact reverberating faintly through the floor and joined by the not-so-distant squeak of shoes on polished wood. A ball slams against a backboard, followed quickly by a rupture of excited shouting and a chorus of cheers, before all of that noise dissolves back into its usual, mundane chaos once more.

Right now, all attention is on that game – not a should-be-empty changing room.

Ivan’s hand braces against the damp tile beside Lovro’s head. The shower wall is cold beneath his palm, but Lovro is so fucking warm against him. Fresh sweat still clings to the small of Lovro’s back from the drills Ivan had made him run – had made all the students run – before the two of them found their excuse to disappear in here. His gym shirt is damp at the collar, his breathing not quite all the way steady again yet, and his heart drums hard enough, races fast enough, that Ivan can practically feel it beating inside his own chest.

He is aware of everything. Of all of it, almost painfully. Of the locked doors, and the stupid risk, and just how easily this could all go so horribly, predictably wrong. It wouldn’t even take much. Just one person – one student hunting down a forgotten water bottle, one unoccupied teacher passing by. That’s it. That’s all.

And still… Ivan can’t seem to gather the good sense to take a single step back.

“This is insane.”

The words come out low and muffled against Lovro’s skin. He brushes his mouth along the side of Lovro’s neck, dipping low enough to taste the sweat-salted hollow of Lovro’s throat. The pulse jumps against his tongue, and Lovro’s fingers slide into his hair, twisting just hard enough to hold him there; to keep him. Up above, Lovro’s laugh is quiet and breathless.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Then stop.”

A beat. Ivan raises his head from Lovro’s neck and pulls away, but he doesn’t go far. He can never go too far. His own heartbeat thunders louder than any of the basketballs on the other side of these four walls, and as he lifts his gaze, he finds Lovro already waiting to meet it. He is truly a sight to behold: pink-flushed face, and kissed-red lips, and black-eaten eyes. Gazing back at Ivan as though he trusts him, implicitly, to be the sensible one here, the adult, and that truly is a terrible mistake. Ivan hates himself for never correcting it.

In the gymnasium, the basketball game roars on. Ivan really should be in there to see it, to supervise it – to teach it.

He leans in here and kisses Lovro’s sweet, smiling mouth instead.

-

Tagged by my beloved @lucky-bishop 🩷 I’ve been giving myself a break from pushing myself to write this summer, but recently I started working on a little companion piece to All My Heart Is Yours that explores a bit more of the D/s dynamic between Peter and Stiles that is hinted at in one section of that fic.

The pillow under Stiles’s knees isn’t thick enough to totally take away the sting of the hardwood floor beneath, but he doesn’t mind.

He hunches over enough to rest his head on Peter’s knee, because he’s allowed to do that. If he moves around too much, Peter will twist his fingers in his hair and tug until it stings, a small reminder.

Peter’s flipping through some big, glossy, rich people magazine. Something about country estates or some other thing Stiles has no interest in.

Everything about Peter is rich. His forty dollar hair pomade, and his expensive facial lotion, and the shampoo that makes Stiles’s hair silky smooth whenever he lets Peter wash it. Peter never lets Stiles pay for anything, and the lavish gifts that show up on Stiles’s doorstep leave him flushed and smiling and feeling spoiled rotten.

And this: the luxury of kneeling, face pressed against Peter’s designer denim, watching Peter’s stomach rise and fall with his breaths, the smell of his cologne, always so subtle that Stiles can really only smell it when he’s up close like this.

His fingers curl and uncurl around the hem of Peter’s jeans, another thing he’s allowed. Peter knows him too well to expect total stillness from him, and that knowledge settles hot and pleasing in Stiles’s chest.

Peter’s voice breaks the quiet. “This one’s for sale. What do you think, darling? Would you be my stable boy? I’m sure there are many quiet places we could sneak away for a fuck.” He holds the magazine in front of Stiles’s face, showing a glossy two page spread with stables and white fences and acres of rolling green hills.

A small smile plays across Stiles’s face. He likes this game. “What would the other stable hands think?” He asks slyly.

“We’d have to give you something to chew on to keep you quiet so they don’t hear. Maybe part of a nice leather bridle you could bite down on to keep from screaming my name.”

“You think you’d have me wanting to scream your name, huh?”

“Wanton little thing like you, making eyes at the big boss man? Oh definitely.”

Stiles laughs, pressing his smile down against Peter’s thigh.

Peter smiles down at him and tugs his hair, gently, before going back to his magazine.

Stiles is a little hard now, but he knows he won't be doing anything about that for awhile yet. That’s alright, he’s right where he wants to be.

I've been in a weird place writing wise, soo I decided to take something off the backburner to fiddle with. I feel like I already shared some of this before buuut if I did it was like 2 years ago, so fuck it!

Here's a snip of Entry Wound, my fic where Stiles becomes a werewolf.

-

There's no sign of Stiles outside the depot. Derek steps out of the car cautiously. He can't smell anything truly dangerous - there's no gun oil or wolfsbane. But there - hanging in the air, sweet miasma, is blood. Stiles' blood. He follows it into the depot, wrinkling his nose when the dual scents of motor oil and grease threaten to overwhelm him, past the abandoned train cars and into the office area.

One of the doors reads Manager in a fading script. Derek pauses by it, listening. He turns the knob and finds it unlocked. Of course Stiles would hide in the office Derek used to sleep in. "Stiles?"

The mattress is piled high with blankets that move when Derek steps inside. Stiles pokes his head out from beneath them, his little face is splotchy, tear-stained. "Hi," he croaks out.

Derek wants to rip the blankets off and carry Stiles home. He wants to grab Stiles and demand to know what happened. He does neither. "Are you hurt?"

Stiles sits up. The blankets slip down, revealing his bare shoulders and collarbone. Derek clenches his jaw. Patches of red and purple blood across Stiles' fair skin. Love-bites.

He can't help it; he rushes across the room, falling to his knees besides the bed. He only means to look, needing to confirm his worst fears, but Stiles reacts like it's a precursor to an attack. The boy jerks back, pressing himself against the concrete wall, clutching a threadbare quilt to his chest.

Derek freezes with one hand outstretched. "Stiles?"

"I don't..." Stiles swallows. His gaze is vacant, focused on something over Derek's shoulder. "Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that. It's fine, I'm fine." Slowly, his fingers unclench and the quilt falls away.

Stiles' chest is dotted with more hickeys. They're lurid, obscene against his pale skin. "You don't look fine, Stiles," Derek says, as gently as he can. "Did someone..." He can't bring himself to ask. Stiles smells of another man, semen, saliva. Derek can put the pieces together.

But Stiles shakes his head vehemently. "That's - it didn't happen like that. I said yes, and he just -"

"You don't have to tell me," Derek says firmly. He makes eye contact with Stiles. "Okay? You don't have to say anything, not until you're ready."

That earns him a watery smile. "I wish that was true, big guy. Just - just let me show you, okay?"

Horror spreads through him, but he nods. Stiles takes a deep breath, gearing himself up for it, and then he scoots down the bed, closer to Derek. Shaking like a fly-bitten creature, Stiles rolls onto his stomach.

For a moment, Derek isn't sure what he's supposed to see. Stiles is only wearing a pair of briefs, and he wants to avert his eyes, wants to wrap Stiles back up in the blankets. But then he sees it: the bite mark. It's high on Stiles' back, close to his spine. It's livid, filthy red and sluggishly bleeding. There's overlaying gashes, like the man kept biting while Stiles struggled beneath him.

"He didn't tell me he was a werewolf," Stiles says in a small voice. "He - I met him at Jungle and he was nice, so I went back to his car. After... Um. Afterwards, I was just lying in the backseat, talking, you know? It was about a movie; I was telling him about a movie we could see, and then he -"

Derek leans over Stiles, needing to get a better look. Stiles' breath hitches and his shoulders tense. He makes a move like he's going to squirm away, but Derek presses him down against the mattress with one hand. Stiles whimpers, turns his face away, as Derek sniffs at the wound.

Alpha. An Alpha werewolf attacked Stiles.

"Am I going to die?"

"No," Derek growls. The wound is bleeding, but he can already see it starting to close up. Instinct demands that he help, and so he does. He laps at the bites, chasing away the scent and taste of the Alpha who mauled Stiles. He laves at the wound, running his tongue against the grooves, until saliva runs down Stiles' side.

"This is weird," Stiles says, voice thick. "And gross."

It's not weird. The only thing unnatural about this at all is that the Alpha didn't do this. It's supposed to foster a pack bond between Alpha and the new beta, as well as reducing the likelihood of bite rejection. It's tradition. But this one attacked Stiles, ruining what should have been a tender moment between them, and then abandoned him. An unwanted omega wolf.

Stiles is in good company.

"Stop, Derek, please."

Derek lifts his head, licking his lips. The bite is healing nicely now, with no trace of the black pus that indicates a rejection. Stiles will be okay. "You didn't want this." Derek is still holding Stiles in place. "So why...?"

Stiles' throat clicks as he swallows. "He said... he said that I was asking for it by running around with so many wolves." The next words come out in as a whisper. "He said I was a tease."

"Stiles..."

"It's fine," Stiles insists. His eyes are still closed. "Just - just get off me, okay?"

Derek obeys but doesn't go far. The last thing Stiles needs is someone hovering over him, but he's hurt and reeks of sex and shame. Derek never wanted that for him, never. He knew it would happen eventually: teenagers want sex, it's natural. But it should have been good for Stiles. It never should have been tainted by violence and fear.

It should have been with Derek.

He pushes that ugly, possessive thought away. Bitter jealously isn't attractive coming from an adult man. "Do you want to go home?"

Stiles doesn't move. He's still spread out, face pressed against the mattress. There's more dark marks staining the milk-white skin of his thighs. This Alpha hadn't been gentle, even before the biting. "When will I know?"

"You're not going to die."

"That's not what I mean," Stiles snaps. He sits up with a grimace, pulling the quilt up to his chest. "When will I know what I'm going to be?"

As always, Stiles' mind is going down paths Derek didn't anticipate. "You're not going to turn into a kanima," he says firmly, willing it to be true. "They're incredibly rare and, Stiles, you know yourself."

The words are not as reassuring as he'd have hoped. Stiles draws his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself. "If..." He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "If I'm not a werewolf, and I'm... something, I need you to -"

Derek clenches his jaw. No matter what, he's not killing Stiles. He doesn't have that in him. But a comforting lie works better than the truth sometimes. "I'll take care of you," he says, resisting the urge to curl his hand around Stiles' ankle. "Now come on, you'll feel better after you get some sleep."

Stiles' laugh is bitter, but he slides off the bed all the same. He keeps a hold of the quilt, wrapping it around him like a shawl. Can Stiles smell him on it? The residual alpha musk could be a comfort if Stiles' senses are already enhancing.

"Here," Derek says, snagging a forgotten cellphone from the mess of blankets. When Stiles takes it from him, their fingers brush. Normally, this would make Stiles' heart race with excitement, but now he jerks away, keeping his eyes averted.

"Sorry, I don't know why..." Stiles trails off, but Derek knows what he was going to say. The stench of fear is thick in the air.

"It's okay," Derek says, because it is. He stays on his knees, trying to appeal to any new instincts Stiles might be feeling. He ignores his own desire to nuzzle Stiles' soft belly. Touch can be a comfort, but not here, not so soon. "Let me take you home."

-

low pressure tags!! @nixeleth @renmackree @meggie-stardust @like-lazarus @punchedbymarkesmith

Spin the wheel again. That’s who’s trying to protect you.

(If you have zero idea about a name you got, spin until you see someone you recognize.)