So, I’ve been working on a number of things lately, story wise, and I wanted to give you all tidbits on this bright Friday!
From Take Me Down (wherein Erica is triggered by the sight of Stiles getting punched, and proceeds to lose herself to her PTSD)
Jackson holds an inordinate amount of resentment for someone so young. The ribbing Stiles always gives him borders on bullying, but he does it with enough grace that Jackson tends to pick up on the fact that this is the only way Stiles will show any form of affection for Jackson. They’re rivals, hatred hard to bury, but it’s coming along. The training helps.
Which is why the punch comes right out of left field. Stiles wasn’t even talking, and suddenly there’s a fist flying for him. It’s a whirl of motion, his face snapping to the side, pain blooming over and across his cheek, the cold planes of the floor coming up to meet him faster than he’s ready. He hits the ground hard, curling his arms around his head as he blinks static from his vision. He gets a glimpse of Jackson reaching for him, fury the colour of tidal pools, and Stiles raises an arm to fight him off.
A snarl reverberates throughout the room that sets Stiles’ hair on end. It doesn’t sound friendly, not even warning; it’s a noise filled with pain and trauma and a need to kill. Stiles blinks up at Jackson, hovering over him with his fist coming down for a blow against his stomach, and suddenly, he’s not there.
The shapes blur together, Erica ducking and weaving, forcing Jackson back and onto the floor. Jackson can barely keep her at bay, his eyes widening in realization that Erica very much wants to break his neck. Her form sits hunched and feral, teeth gleaming wetly as she tries to go for his jugular, wanting to tear his life from him. Her claws gouge, her teeth snap, and blood pools around Jackson’s torn open shirt.
And from Palace, which is for the winner of the Sterek Charity Auction (wherein a necromancer makes a play for raising some dead things and Derek fails at acting menacing)
“Okay, yeah, no, this is just terrible,” Stiles says, grinning wide as he steps away from Lacey. She makes a grab for him, but Stiles sidesteps her easily. “You’re awful at play acting aggression, dude. Seriously, you’re so much more convincing when you push me against walls; we need to get you acting lessons. As for you,” Stiles plants his feet in front of Derek, all five foot nothing of him disguised, and wags a finger, “could you not? This whole ‘I am evil, hear me roar’ spiel you keep trying for is pathetic. Take it from someone who knows what a Bad Guy looks like, you’re not it.”
Shayla’s eyebrows raise. “This wolf has seduced you so quickly, Amanda?”
“Whoa, she told me her name was Meredith,” Stiles says, brushing at his side. His image flickers, and Derek feels the familiar slide of magic up his spine. “See, research is paramount when trying to raise dead things on certain territories of land. From my short, short, stint with you lovely people, I’ve realized a few things. One,” Stiles’ image freezes, half Amanda, half Stiles, and it’s grotesquely hilarious, “I dock two hundred points for the fact that you didn’t know Derek Hale was main alpha here. Shames on you.
“Two,” Stiles’ magic grows, bright and unbearable in Derek’s mind. It hurts, “I dock another three hundred points for you not realizing that Amanda was missing, because come on, two of your witchy crew shoved her down and left her, quite literally, to the wolves. And the story I gave for that was shit, utter shit. Not to mention no one questioning how I managed to capture a werewolf all on my lonesome. Scott should be smashing and bashing all known magic makers to smithereens rigth now.
“And three,” Stiles’ disguise shatters apart, his grin wide and abrasive, magic twirling around his fingers, “I award you five hundred points for pissing off a Red and his wolf.”
And finally, a piece from the upcoming next chapter of Wolf Whistle, Matches (wherein Stiles finally gives in to everything he’s been denying, and the new threat arrives)
“Stiles, come on,” Scott calls. “It’s a coffee shop, dude. Must’ve just opened up.”
He can see Lydia and Allison further inside, tucked up beside a long bakery style shelf. There’s a coffee maker behind it all, monstrous and shiny new, with doodads that no one honestly knows how to use. A young woman making foamed latte’s sways in front of it, her black hair braided up into a complicated bun. She operates the machine with precision, and when a drop of foam lands on her brown cheek, she huffs and smacks the machine with a thermometer. A man stands at the counter, waiting to be served, staring at her avidly.
Stiles bounces from foot to foot, trying to ignore the way he’s practically vibrating with the need to not be here, but Scott’s already left him to join the girls and he can’t just stand out here like an idiot. His magic tries to warn him. It burns against his temples as he walks toward the door, steps on the threshold, and gets blasted back.
Stiles shouts, slapping into stacked cardboard boxes that crumple under his weight. His head smacks into the dumpster and his vision reds out. His magic roars and he catches the scattered glimpse of what looks like his air ward, and suddenly the storm above seems to be right here. The wind screeches as it billows around him, racing toward the shop and bouncing off the magical barrier that blocked Stiles from entering. It pushes harder, Stiles’ magic and pain behind it, and the door rips clean off its hinges as the wind wins out.
It whistles into the little shop, ripping up chairs and flinging away tables; Scott dives in front of Lydia and Allison, but the wind ignores them and goes about blowing out the long pane of glass, the food and drinks smashed into the walls and into unsuspecting customers. It wrenches apart the shelving, toppling books and paintings to the floor. It wrecks as much as it can, but can seem to get close enough to Scott, Allison, and Lydia without losing most of its momentum. It circles, throwing customers around instead.
Stiles puts a hand to his head and focuses. His magic snaps at him in anger but his belief pulls back until the world stops spinning and the wind whines in agitation before dissipating completely. Stiles blinks until he can see again, the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Someone’s shouting his name.
So yes! THINGS. I felt bad for not giving you guys some writing lately so here you go. Expect in April for the updates to start again. Heee. I feel a lot better now!