#spark!stiles

PS

Like he doesn’t want to go to class so he wishes class was canceled so then there’s bad weather, when there shouldn’t be, or the fire alarm breaks and keeps going off. Or the teacher had to cancel class for like a meeting.

He’d say that he needs to get groceries and someone would accidentally deliver food to his door and let him keep it and it’s his exact order too.

He’d go thrifting and find all kinds of cool clothes and vintage stuff he wanted.

He’s late and he’s hoping all the lights are green and there’s no traffic and instead of getting there 30 mins late he’s on time.

Like if he buys a mystery figurine he’d say I hope it’s …(which ever one he wants) and he gets it and it keeps happening if he has a bunch of them.

But it’s actually all part of his spark and anytime he wishes or manifests anything his spark is making it happen.

The reason no one asks him out is because he thinks no one wants to ask him out and is accidentally wishing it, and then…

.

“I'm good, Stiles.”

Stiles thinks about the times when, all too often, he himself says I'm good in that particular way, and thinks about how it actually means everything in his life is currently lighting up like a dropped match landing in a trail of gasoline.

In the space of a single heartbeat, he knows he would somehow harness the contents of an entire fucking lake to dampen down that metaphorical trail for Derek, murdering the thought of the lost little boy playing Hide-Go-Seek in Derek's pale eyes.

Only he isn't about to start talking about things being on fire. Not to Derek, not ever.

Instead he says, “I always had this rule, you know, where I’d flat out ignore a problem and wait for it to—and I used to swear to myself that this would actually happen—” His lips drag themselves up one side of his face as he sweeps an arm dramatically through the drizzling rain and the pressing twilight. “—just go away.”

He then allows his arm to fall unceremoniously to his side, and the sound of hand slapping khakis rings out through the sparse and quiet branches of the preserve's stripped bare trees.

“Okay.” Derek says the word with an infinitesimal shake of his head, looking as if he wants Stiles to stop talking.

Thing is, if Derek wanted Stiles to stop talking he would say Stiles, stop talking.

So, Stiles troops on.

“And it kind of worked, a little bit. For a little while, at least. ” He takes a hit of chilly November air. Releases it slowly, enjoying the crazy plume of breath-smoke it creates. “Until I met you,” he shrugs.

Derek blinks and it's a betrayal, giving away his hard-won secrets.

Stiles briefly wonders who else—who left in the world—would know this about the werewolf standing opposite of him. Stiles doesn't need to be a ʼwolf to know this stuff, not when it comes to Derek Hale.

He tries not to look at Derek's lips when Derek licks them before asking, “What are you talking about, Stiles?”

“Magick,” he answers, his feelings and other things shifting underneath the layers of his skin, crackling away like a hundred tiny Roman Candles traversing his bloodstream and manifesting as gooseflesh.

Rolling his hoodie sleeve, he lifts a cold hand between the two of them and allows a miniscule fraction of whatever beats like a heart at the earth's core to flow up through the ground and into his feet and up his legs and down an arm, warm and thrilling, to then spring free out of his right palm.

A small sphere of pure light around the size of a tennis ball now glows about an inch above his hand, kind of like an oversized firefly—and just as alive.

“Cool as fuck, huh?” Stiles mutters, basking in its incandescence, super-proud of himself. Then he gets to his point. “Deaton showed me how to harness my spark, yeah? But I would never have found it in the first place, if you hadn't followed Scott and I into the woods that day.”

Derek blinks again. His jaw ticks like a clock.

“Stiles, that's a little like saying one, two miss a few, ninety-nine, a hundred,” he deadpans, and Stiles can't help but bark out a laugh.

Then he steels himself for one anticipatory moment before daring himself to take a step closer to Derek.

Derek stays put.

“Doesn't make it any less true,” Stiles shrugs.

Derek just stares at him for a moment, before peering down properly at Stiles's little orb, for the first time since Stiles summoned it.

“You've been practising,” he says simply, his eyebrows doing their thing.

He's now staring at Stiles's effort as if he wants to sink his fangs into it, like you would a quarter to test if it's real.

“Is it freaking you out?” Stiles asks.

“No,” he answers flatly. “I think it's cool as fuck,” and he looks up at Stiles like he might want to keep looking.

Stiles wants him to never stop.

“Then here, you can have it,” he says.

He takes another step closer to Derek.

They are toe to toe, now, and still Derek doesn't bolt, nor pounce, nor warn Stiles off.

So, Stiles—really slowly—reaches for Derek's hand.

Derek lets him.

Stiles then transfers the light to Derek's palm, cupping his hand around Derek's to ensure it keeps hovering there. He directs their hands to Derek's chest, stopping right over his heart and flattening them both there, he and Derek watching as Stiles's spark dissipates into Derek's body, leaving behind a few wispy tendrils of light that Stiles guides back into himself with a couple of waves of his free hand.

“Now, whenever you're good, I can be right there being good with you, even if I'm not around,” Stiles says, and then he hopes and hopes when he asks, “Is that okay?”

Derek smiles, and it's the first truly happy-looking smile Stiles has been privileged enough to witness blooming on that beautifully angled face of his.

“It's better than okay, Stiles,” he says. “It's magick.”

.

unedited, soz! this is for @dontcallpanic (pip knows why) <3

.

I really feel like there is more than just this one. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Where to Search for Snow by suburbanmotel | 8.9K | Mature

Welcome to the Supernatural Stiles blog! This space exists to collect all versions of Stiles as a supernatural being. Shifter, demon, witch, fae, god, you name it. A celebration of Stiles being other for those who enjoy that kind of thing. (Me. I am those. I enjoy that kind of thing. I hope you do too.)

What will be shared here?

Excellent question. Fanfic, art, head canons, what ifs, prompts, anything that involves Stiles being supernatural. This is a collection, an archive.

I know a cool fic/art/etc you should share then!

Submissions are absolutely welcome. You can also send messages & asks with links or tell me to go check something out to share it.

Is this space ship specific?

Nope. Any ship (or stuff without ships) is welcome. I’ll tag the ship if there is one.

Did you read every fic you share?

Nope.

XYZ is problematic because…

I am anti-censorship. The goal here is for an archive & in the spirit of that, I don’t want to not share something because there’s an element someone disapproves of. With that said, if you believe something has been shared from a hateful source or it contains something like hate speech, let me know & I’ll look into it.

They left Stiles out because they knew the nogitsune would tear him apart, but now the nogitsune is gone and Stiles can feel the nemeton telling him it isn’t over — not for him. And maybe not for Derek either.

Chapter 11: The Road Through the Forest

Fandom: Teen Wolf / The Wizard of Oz AU

Characters: Stiles + Lydia, Prada

Towards evening they came to a great forest, where the trees grew so big and close together that their branches met over the road of yellow brick. It was almost dark under the trees, for the branches shut out the daylight. But the travelers did not stop, and went on into the forest.  - L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

After breakfast, Lydia and Noah check out at the front desk. Mr. Brindley helps them with their bags, walking them to the Jeep and bidding them a fond farewell.

Outside, the Brindley Arms looks slightly different than it did last night. The red paint on the door seems more polished, the shutters less weathered, the overhead sign straighter.

As they continue down Drover Street, Lydia notices that the other buildings appear tidier, the fences less rickety, the people more cheerful. She wonders if it’s the influence of the morning sun or if the magic from the token is already taking effect. It wouldn’t be the only thing to have progressed overnight.

Something has shifted between her and Noah as well. Their smiles are more frequent and less reserved. The looks they exchange last longer than before. Occasionally, when they talk, they touch… fingertips tapping a shoulder or a wrist, knuckles nudging an elbow or a knee.

Noah touches her so gently, and his interest in her is limitless. She can hear it in the delivery and phrasing of his questions. She can see it in his expression as she responds to each of them.

He likes her.

He likes her, and here, in this strange new world—of all places—she isn’t too suspicious or too scared to appreciate it…like she was in sophomore year.

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