Live Long & Suck It

written in collaboration with @ardentfemme <33

Dear stone butches,

This is a love letter of sorts, one of many that I will write. This is a profession of the ways in which I desire you, what I desire to be for you, and how it feeds me to know that you desire me, too.

Stone butches. You are my safe haven, my constancy. You let me know, in the roughness of your calloused hands and the swagger in your walk that when I lay down with you I will be safe. Taken care of. I know from the way you meet my eyes after I’ve been sizing you up from across the room. Your eyes trail slowly over my body and I know you like what you see, because I never feel sexier than I do when I’m the object of your desire. And I want. I want to get down on my knees for you, show you how I love you.

Would you allow me to show you? You’ve been wounded, darling. I know because I have, too. Trust is hard to come by, especially now. You allow me to feel safe because I know you’ll accept me as I am. You’ll never expect me to do anything against my fem nature. No, you understand that there are different ways to give.

Come, lay your head in my lap. Let me run my nails lightly over your scalp and trace them down your nape. It’s safe here. You could drift off if you wished, with your fem watching over you. I’ll never ask anything of you that you can’t give. I know how if feels to have my boundaries tossed aside by a partner who thought she understood, pushed until I gave in. I won’t ask that of you.

Let yourself unwind in the landscape of my body. Relax into me. I know you have given and given until you found yourself used up. I tell you: I will honor, will safeguard, will protect whatever you give me. I know vulnerability does not come easily anymore. Perhaps it never did. I know because I feel the same way. But I want to be vulnerable for, want to give that to you.

Thank you. But here’s over 4000 words for that prompt because. Uh. It happened. I apologize for any mistakes. I just…kept writing. Featuring Malia knowing what’s up, scenting, and some mild blink-and-you’ll-miss-it jealous Derek.

{{ on ao3: Shirt Thief }}

Derek’s wardrobe has expanded, but it’s still a shock to see him wearing actual colors.

They’re in the Beacon Hills Preserve, Derek and Malia are scenting whatever it is they’re after while Stiles, Scott, Kira, and Isaac try to formulate what it is they might be able to do once they find the…witches? That’s their current guess, at least. It sounds a little far-fetched, but the way three students from the high school had just wandered out in the middle of Yukimura’s class had felt more magical than anything else they could come up with.

Unless all three of them were banshees or kanimas, it didn’t seem likely that they were supernatural creatures being drawn out against their will. It was more like something or someone was doing it.

That’s the theory Stiles and Lydia come up with, at least, and Scott should know better than to question their logic, even if Isaac doesn’t.

Isaac and Stiles are in the middle of a useless argument when Stiles stops short, his gaze focused on Derek as something clicks in his head. “Is that my shirt?”

Even Isaac stops short and everyone looks at Stiles, although Stiles doesn’t look away from Derek.

Derek who is… Who is definitely wearing his shirt. What the fuck?

“Me? Why would I be wearing your shirt?” Derek asks, incredulous, lip curled in that way that makes him look like a douche. A hot douche, but a douche. Stiles hates it.

And Stiles isn’t one to back down. He strides up to Derek, causing Malia to glance between the two like she’s not sure if she should back away or continue the literal witch hunt. “I don’t hear actual denial in there, pal. Yeah, I know your tricks.” He points his finger to Derek’s chest which is, again, clad in his shirt.