@voraciiious.
he’s used to this state of surviving: exhaustion like static in his skull even as his fingers curl into angry, frustrated fists that meet the unyielding bark of the tree. HE’S LOOKING FOR SOMETHING. a hunch. one that won’t go away, no matter how much he tries to sleep it off and ignore the way it gnaws at the back of his mind. anxious enough to be kept awake until 3am, still aimlessly scouring the woods for the call of the nemeton to draw him near. ( to answer a question he’s terrified to know. ) BUT HE HEARS IT THEN. a voice, both somehow unfamiliar and familiar all at once in its cadence: ‘ it's really past your bedtime, stiles. ‘ he spins quickly towards the source, knuckles bleeding, amber eyes flashing like a cornered animal. he’s never seen that face before --- at least he doesn’t think he has. ❛ you ---- how do you know my name? ❜ his instincts are screaming. RUN. he should run. ( he doesn’t. )
