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    “Are you my sugar daddy?” Stiles blurts out, slapping a hand over his mouth when his brain catches up to his mouth. The man lets out a soft laugh, making his way around the couch till he’s standing just feet away from Stiles. Stiles can smell his cologne from here, it smells heavenly, Stiles kinda wants to bury his face into the guy's chest so he can figure out exactly what it is.

    “If that’s what you’d like to call it.” The man smiles, Stiles doesn’t think he should be allowed to smile like that. All soft and gorgeous and way too pretty to be legal. He’s still not convinced any of this is real.

     

    Stiles loses his wallet, someone returns it along with $5,000. Shit keeps coming, Stiles life doesn't make any sense anymore, he's just going with it.

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    21 Aug 2019

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    "You’re all headed out to Oklahoma in a week.”

    Derek snaps his head up, stares at him in horror, “No, boss.”

    Yes,” Finstock insists in a steely voice. “The NSSL have been on at us for a year about some decent exposure, and I think you’re just the team to do it.”

    “I haven’t done weather since college,” Derek protests.

    Boyd snorts again, presumably because he’s thinking back to the time when Derek and the weather last collided and he…. well, did the guy into the weather for a brief, wonderful, terribly foolish time. But, Boyd needs to shut up before Derek punches him on the nose.

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    10 Jul 2019

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      "If you're watching this, you're probably some kind of sentient life form responding to my distress call – well, it's not really an official distress call because, well, the hardware for that is kind of crushed, but I'm definitely in distress, so that should probably count for something."

      The young man on the screen sighs and rubs his face, jerking his hand away with a hiss. He's bleeding, Derek realises: there's a gash across his brow and the knuckles of both hands are bruised and bloody, and that's only what he can make out between the cracks in the glass and the frame of the camera.

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    01 Jul 2019

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    Derek remembers a hyperactive eleven year old with a buzzcut and an irritating habit of getting underfoot - his memory doesn’t lend to the lean, doe eyed brunet in his hallway; he’s talking on his phone and scowling something fierce but Derek’s mouth goes dry at the way Stiles runs long fingers through his hair.

    “Coffee?” Derek asks abruptly, turning to look at Laura. “There’s a fresh pot. Cora’s gone out on a last minute supply run - is, uh, Stiles staying?”

    “I offered your wonderful hospitality until he can find a flight to take him home,” Laura says, following him back into the kitchen and leaving Stiles in the hall. “I know you have the space, and it seemed a shame to leave him stranded. Nobody should be alone on Christmas.”

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    30 Jun 2019

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    “Who is this? Where’s Erica?”

    “Wrong number, asshole!”

    “Stop calling me an asshole,” the man on the other end snapped aggressively.

    Stiles could understand. He’d be pretty aggressive too if he’d murdered someone and texted a wrong number to ask for help burying the body. This guy obviously failed How To Be a Serial Killer 101.

    “What kind of idiot thinks I murdered someone?”

    “The kind of idiot who got your text messages, you fucking dumbass!” he retorted hotly. “Maybe double check your contacts before sending a random stranger details on your nefarious plans to dispose of a freshly cut up body!”

    “What?!” the guy on the other end demanded, crossed between horrendously confused and livid.

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    20 Jun 2019