"What?" comes the whisper, dragged out of him, dripping with every exhilarating, stifling, annoying, soft, safe, rescue, hope moment that they have ever spent together.
"He loves you," it says, splaying one palm over the other atop his heart, face mimicking sincere, "to a ludicrous extent, really. Do you know how many picturesque images of you and he together I had to shove out of the way just to get to where I am now? It was pitiful." It presses forward, slow, and Derek inhales sharply, acutely aware that if he hurts this thing, he'll hurt Stiles.
He doesn't even need to question that claim, that this is possession instead of shape-shifting, magic, or illusions. It's residing within a body, surrounded by a scent, that Derek has mapped extensively, memorized, traced and retraced over and over again, secretly, devotedly, he knows Stiles better, he's sure, than he knows himself. And he's never even touched him.
"He doesn't love me," he mourns, assured, his back foot shifting from toes to flat as he pulls away, crouch-crawl, wary eyes latched, desperate.
"I could show you," Not-Stiles purrs, "don't you want to see? Don't you want to know?"
Bookmarked by MultishipsLover
28 Mar 2020
An amalgamation of Teen Wolf and Time Travel via yours truly. WIPs not included :)
The guy zeroes in on him with such intense focus that Derek kind of wants to run away, or maybe drown in those eyes, or maybe wrap the guy up in cotton and protect him from everything forever. Instead, wracked with indecision and overstimulation, his brain just shuts off. He doesn't know if he's thankful or mad at it for that, because that just leaves him looking into warm honeyed whiskey eyes which are as wide and inviting and beautiful as the day is young.
Cinnamon-spice attraction, tangy lemon curiosity, all wind-swept and coated with wild berries. The smell of him is overwhelming. Considering who he's engaged to, though? The influx of interest on his part is a little worrying and not something Derek wants to trust at all.
Laura is wrinkling her nose, at this point. Derek doesn't necessarily blame her.
His Mom, however, just gives the guy a sharp look before schooling her expression, standing from her chair at Peter's bedside and saying: "Are you Peter's fiancée?"
[Or: The one where Peter is the Beast and Stiles is Sleeping Beauty and Derek is the Big Bad Wolf, only, the Beast is the one sleeping, and all the Big Bad Wolf wants to do is save Sleeping Beauty.]
- Part 1 of TW Bingo♡
Fandoms: Teen Wolf (TV)
13 Nov 2018
"Can you come home with us?" Freddie asks plaintively, and Stiles hooks a lock of auburn hair behind her ear with a little moue.
"Maybe some other day, chickadee, but, alas, I must return to the other children, as I've heard there are dragons afoot, and I can't leave them unguarded." They both gasp, half delighted, half horrified by the prospect.
"What about us?" Letty whimpers, and Stiles coos a conspiratorial smile.
"Didn't you know? Your uncle's a knight. And the bravest, most fearsome one of all, even the biggest, most terrifying monsters are afraid of him. Why do you think your mother asked him to come pick you up? She knew he would keep you safe, protect you."
They gasp, turning to each other, wide-eyed, awed and with realization dawning, before both girls, like flipping a switch, abruptly become utterly excited and agreeable about the idea of their uncle as a babysitting candidate. Stiles flashes a lop-sided grin over his shoulder at Derek, pleased with his accomplishment, even moreso when he sees the way the man's jaw has dropped.
"Take me away," Stiles breathes when Peter opens his door.
He's soaked through, heavy rain drumming against the stiff line of his shoulders, mud cached up his pants, his arms, teeth-clacking, bone-clinking shivers wracking harshly through him. He feels cracked open, desperate, hollow, and there's a tight, blistering ache in the back of his throat begging him to cry, to spill out all his secrets, his terror, his misery.
"Alpha," he murmurs, crumbling, nearly whisked away by the harsh winds, and Peter's eyes go molten, from ice to lava in a split second, the liquid magma in those irises so entrancing that Stiles, roughly, helplessly, raggedly, repeats what can only be a benediction, "Alpha."
Peter growls, rough and low, and drags him inside, shutting the door behind him a little gentler than he'd expect, but then, Peter is always doing things gentler than he'd expect.
He fucking drowned him gentler than he would've expected, and isn't that just... his life in a nutshell.
[Or: Peter is protective and violent, Stiles is fucked up but surviving, and they elope to canada to see the northern lights.]