Tired. Gay. Emo.

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.)

OH MY GODDDD UR SO RIGHT

i can see itttt 'shane come.' And he just has shane follow him around the neighborhood maybe hes a little confused but hey shane has never had an issue with hanging out with his husband and ilya keeps a hand on him most of the time maybe his back, the back of his neck, if shane starts to get a little too far ahead ilya pulls him back and if shane starts to lag behind ilya whistles and. Sure. shane says hes being an asshole for whistling ('im not a Dog ilya.' 'hm. okay.') but maybe hes a little red while he does a little half jog to keep up and maybe he feels some satisfaction in his chest when ilya rewards him for returning to his side (coming back to heel....) with a kiss to his cheek

they finish their walk that apparently had no destination and ilya tells him 'good boy' and shane kind of splutters and says 'for what?' And instead of answering ilya asks him if he wants a treat and they fuck and its all. I mean. They fuck all the time, its nothing unusual

They go on walks every day after dinner for weeks, and every time shane gets better at keeping pace with ilya to stay by his side and every time ilya rewards him for it with sex