Anonymous said: this is a super weird thing to say but since we've never seen you, i always imagine you as st. vincent and subsequently imagine st. vincent writing erudite teen wolf fic every time i see her

sometimes I wonder why I keep anon on, and then things like this appear

eggtrolls said: I have a 400+ page spreadsheet to finish proofing by tomorrow morning so I'm gonna need the name and author of that fic where Stiles goes backpacking through Asia and gets tattoos and Derek is like "break me off a piece of that" and they have sex with feelings YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT MAN I LIVE IN MONGOLIA I AM ALONE ON THE STEPPE I HAVE NO FRIENDS PLEASE HELP


this might not be at all what you’re looking for, but it… might be the first teen wolf fic I ever wrote? WHAT AN IMPORTANT BLAST FROM THE PAST, jesus. It definitely includes Stiles traveling and having tattoos and sex and feelings, anyway. 


scoutsxhonor replied to your post “qhuinn replied to your video:Hanson on the Jenny McCarthy Show was one…”



If I didn’t have to read this book for a freelance assignment I would be right here liveblogging a re-read all night long

important news:

ladyofthelog wrote another masterwork

zehwulf wrote 19k words of this prompt

& I am still a human trashheap 

this morning I got an annoying work email and then an annoying follow up being like “why do you have an out of office message on??” that would be because I’m out of the office, you asshole, and away from a computer mostly until early June. Enjoy the internet in my absence, friends!

(also I’m going over to bask in a friend’s AC but will get to more prompts later this evening / tomorrow, when it’s ONLY supposed to be in the eighties, can you imagine the luxury)

It’s terrible! I didn’t ever want this! It’s already been summer for a year!

it was fine. i was fine. i like summer. i laughed so much at east coast friends and their endless winter.

this is not summer. this is something else entirely. 

ladyofthelog said: there is a lot of cold beer but no one can successfully light the grill

"Kira you are a fire demon,” Isaac says. “Can’t you just—!” He makes a helpless gesture with both hands. The stir of air over the coals flickers a tiny lick of fire to life. Stiles holds his breath; just as quickly it gutters and dies. 

Simultaneously, a half a dozen supernatural stomachs rumble. 

"I’m not a demon," Kira corrects. "And it’s not fire, it’s—”

"He knows, honey." Scott’s been doing this long enough that he’s practiced at subduing his betas. Stiles barely even sees the flash of fang that has Isaac scowling his retreat. 

"I can," he says. No one seems to believe him.

"You’re drunk," Scott says.

His fang-y thing doesn’t work on Stiles, who grins proudly with a mouth full of human teeth to remind him. ”I’m great at this,” he says. “You’re just missing a crucial ingredient, is all.” He points very steadily at a bottle under the grill. “Lighter fluid will fix this problem. And I am great at lighter fluid.”

"You’re great at mountain ash," Scott says gently. "That’s not the same thing."

"Stand back," Stiles insists. Kira and Isaac are still side-eyeing each other, and it distracts Scott just enough that Stiles can douse the coals liberally in lighter fluid and toss in one lit match.

It goes up high and hot, and there are burgers on the grill in twenty fast minutes.

It only takes Stiles a month or two to grow his eyelashes back. 

Anonymous said: Stiles in bed in his underwear hot as balls drinking a beer after a horrible day?

Stiles peers down the length of his naked body, mystified. From here it’s just so many planes and angles: the curve of his ribcage and the flat of his belly, twin peaked hipbones, the string beany length of his legs. He reaches down to palm at his dick a little bit, just to acknowledge the weight of it, the softness of the skin against his too-warm hands. It’s a measure of how tired he is that the contact and pressure don’t even stir him, or maybe it’s age: in high school, when he lived here, touching his dick long enough to tuck it properly into his jeans felt like an unfair provocation more than half the time.

The beer, at least, is cold and bitter and correct, a familiar holdover from college, from when things made sense. He shifts up onto his elbows and takes a series of long, cold swallows. He doesn’t reach for his phone, which has been blessedly silent since he got home a few hours ago, in the earliest light of day: after a night spent fighting off Beacon Hills’ latest supernatural mishap, and after Derek drove him home and kissed him, tender, fierce, desperate, like Stiles was something he had only recently discovered was delicate, like he was scared of doing it and scared not to. His whole body aches. His brain aches. Sleep seems very far away. 

He finishes the bottle and uses it as an excuse to text Derek “why me, man?” 

No answer comes for a while. Stiles drifts off into tidal kind of nap, mind ebbing and eddying back and forth between dream and consciousness. He almost doesn’t trust it when he sees the shadow of a figure perched on his windowsill, like he used to, like he belongs there. “Do you really want to know?” Derek asks.

"Yeah," Stiles says, in the dream, in life. "Of course I do."

dizzzylu said: derek and stiles dealing with a heat wave. or a cold snap. that would probably make you feel better, thinking about the cold.

[it has been so hot for so long that I don’t even believe that coldness exists anymore; last night I was watching The L Word and I legitimately got mad about how much clothing various characters were wearing, because looking at them made me itchy. I have… all kinds of problems.]

"It’s not heated," Derek says. 

"Great." Stiles tugs his shirt over his head, shameless. A few years ago he would have hesitated, maybe leapt in fully clothed and pretended he was too hot to wait, but he’s mostly over comparing himself to his wolf-built packmates. He’s pale and skinny and splattered with moles, and it’s been ninety degrees in the shade for a week now, and he is done caring about everything except sweet, cold relief. 

"You might not—" Derek says, but the rest of his sentence is lost as Stiles plunges headfirst into the water, heedless and thrilled. It is cold, chilly enough that his lungs tighten instinctively at the suddenness of it, his skin tight and goosebumped all over. He surfaces gasping, grinning, throwing his head back to feel air move against his skin, no longer stifling and still. 

"This is amazing," he says. 

"You’ll get cold in a minute."

"Great. Fantastic. Sounds like a dream."

Derek is sitting on the ledge near the shallow end, dangling his legs so that the water comes midway up his calves. He’s still fully clothed and somehow not sweating, which seems improbable, for a werewolf in this heat.

"You’re not gonna join me?" Stiles does feel a little bit self-conscious, now, rude or gluttonous. The chill of the water has shocked him back into his senses. He treads water and watches his distorted fingers, all five, as they move. "Or. Are you busy."

"I’m not." Derek kicks a little spray of water up, the shimmer of it catching and refracting the fading western light. "Busy."


Derek frowns and sighs. He looks for a moment like he did when Stiles first knew him: private, guarded, grumpy. Stiles swims over and gets his feet under him. He doesn’t realize until he’s too close that he’s standing between Derek’s knees, bare-chested, dripping, that he’s imagined a lot of moments that start something like this. He hopes that chlorine will cover him as he reaches up and offers his hand. “C’mon,” he says.

Derek reaches back, tentative, and his skin is so hot it’s unbearable. Stiles feels blood rushing in him, to the surface, making him prickly with want. He tugs with all of his strength and can’t help thinking that still Derek must have wanted to come with him, his body sliding forward helplessly, the clear high peal of his laughter drowned in the splash he makes when he falls all the way in.