Title: We were made to never fall away
Rating: T for complex themes, implied sexuality, strong language, eventual violence
Characters: Stiles, Stiles-Danny friendship, Scott-Derek-Stiles drama, Stiles/OC, eventual Sterek. One supporting OC throughout.
Spoilers: References and possible eventual spoilers through end of season two.
Author's Note: At this point, this is a mostly unedited flight of fancy, written feverishly, nearly straight through, over the course of an hour or two, maybe. Loosely inspired by a gif from the video Genesis by someone called Grimes. I've never seen the video, just the gif. Please feel free to read, and further, please feel free to comment or review if you'd like. Please also be aware that this is a highly personal/selfish piece, however, and that I rarely post these. Thank you.
Title Credit: lyric from "Letter from the Sky," by Civil Twilight
Edit 9/30/12: Because I'm having a lot of trouble with the Doc Manager here on FF, I have reverted to using binary in my break-markers. The "insert horizontal line" function does not like me at all. First person to identify the "code" wins!
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, plot, etc. are the property of the creators of Teen Wolf. Any original characters, settings and plots are the property of PuffleHuff. PuffleHuff is in no way associated with Teen Wolf, and no copyright infringement is intended. This work is an amateur fan effort and no profit is being made.
She came to him carrying a flaming sword. It was just a dream, though, so it didn't seem all that peculiar. But it still felt intimidating.
She looked a little rakish, a little roguish, rather waifish. Her long hair was matted, her dress hung askance, her makeup, smudged.
There was a heart tattooed on the inside of her left elbow, and a dark and oddly shaped bruise at her collar bone.
"What happened there?" he asked, arm outstretched to point out the dark spot.
A herd of bison wandered across the distant landscape.
"You did," she smiled darkly.
His fingertips grazed the bare skin of her shoulder. She was cool to the touch, and the sun was setting. She couldn't possibly keep warm by the fire of her sword in the night.
"What do you mean?" he sluggishly asked, not understanding her answer.
She raised the sword above her head and he backed away. He could still feel her under his fingers though she stared him down from afar. She was slipping back into the desert and that sword was swinging down upon him.
"You're going to wake up," she shouted, though he heard no more than a whisper.
"Stiles. Stiles!" Sheriff Stilinski was shaking his son awake. "Come on! Get a hustle on! You want a ride to school or what?"
Right, his Jeep was still in the shop.
"Yeah, Dad. I'm up," he groggily replied, waving his father away. A dark suspicion that he was forgetting something important nagged the back of his mind.
School was school. There were people, there were teachers, there were werewolves. Stiles felt tired, worn down. There'd been too many late nights with the wolf pack lately, and it was taking its toll. He'd been staring aimlessly out the window for several minutes before he realized the dark shape of Derek Hale was staring back at him from the treeline across the field. He just shook his head, not caring at all what was going on, and returned his attention to whatever it was Finstock's lecture was about.
Scott too, it seemed, had noticed Derek Hale across the field, and was being reprimanded for spacing out instead of answering Finstock's question. Whatever.
"You alright, man?" Danny's face showed genuine concern when Stiles came around again. He was standing, arms shoved through his t-shirt sleeves, half-dressed, in front of his locker. Lacrosse practice, and once again he'd been relinquished to the bench.
"Yeah, just tired," Stiles tried to brush it off.
"'Cause you've been standing there for like, ten minutes."
A quick sweep of the locker room confirmed that, indeed, most of the team had already departed. He nodded quickly, pulling his shirt over his head and shoving his hand into his backpack to fish out his phone.
Dad couldn't pick him up, he'd have to find a ride home.
Stiles had seen Danny wander away from the corner of his eye, but could still hear the taller boy rummaging in his own locker.
"Hey Danny? Could I ask a favor?"
The boy smirked and sighed. "I've told you, Stiles. You aren't my type." He laughed softly.
"Nonono, dude," Stiles brushed off the joke. "I just need a ride."
Stiles refrained from taking his usual self-medicated dose of Adderall and completed his homework at regular speed. He chopped together a salad when his dad stopped home for dinner, and ignored the text messages Scott and Allison sent him while trying to locate each other. He felt sluggish and slow, and not at all interested in being conscious.
He took too long in the shower and fell asleep on top of his bedsheets with just his bath towel around him.
Her sword wasn't on fire the second time. It hung at her hip and thumped faintly against the bone there as she walked. He walked toward her, and she toward him, though they never covered any ground. She was perpetually six steps away.
The mark at her collar bone seemed darker somehow, if that was even possible. And pricked with red.
"What happened there?" he asked again, raising his hand but unable to reach her.
She smirked impatiently. "You did," she answered again.
"When?" Maybe if he moved a little faster he could catch up to her.
"A better question," her mouth broke into a less condescending smile. "Not yet."
She stopped walking, the rhythm of metal on bone ceasing, but the gap between them remained. It had gotten dark, but the sun had never gone down. The stars were barely coming out. The desert was lit by an inexplicable light between them.
"Then how did that...?" He tried to run, but the sand and scree fell away beneath him. He was finally making progress, but at an insignificant rate.
She reached out for him, mirroring his own gesture, sliding her fingertips across the angles of his face, though he could not attain hers.
Her look was menacing and entrancing.
"You never called me back last night! What's up with you, Stiles?" Scott was giving him the third degree while he picked over his tater-tots.
The lunchroom was loud with activity and the raging rumor mill of Beacon Hills High. Who was doing who, who was cheating with whose papers, who was dealing what drugs. Who'd been attacked by what mythical creature.
"Nothing. I fell asleep early," he shrugged. "Sorry."
"Whoa. Seriously? That's not like you."
"Yeah, well. Wolf-business takes its toll on the non-super-powered, Scott." It also wasn't like Stiles to snap with so little humor to temper his blows.
"Jeez," Scott raised his hands as if to say I'm backing away slowly, here. "Maybe you're getting sick."
Stiles tried to settle his anger, relenting for the sake of his preternaturally gifted yet wildly naïve best friend.
"Yeah, maybe I am."
They were sitting in the bed of a rusted out pickup truck. The bison could be heard roaming through the sparse desert grass nearby. The sword was on fire again, and they each grasped the hilt with one hand as they held it out in front of them.
It's so dark around them, but he knew that if the fire went out the stars would be bright enough to illuminate the landscape for miles around.
He can see her more clearly like this. Her hair flies freer around her face in the breeze. Her makeup seems less dark and cakey. Her dress fits tighter and is quite flattering. Here eyes are still fierce, but her mouth is soft.
She smiled easily when she notices him watching her.
"When did that happen?" he asked, eyes going to the angry red and purple bruise running between her neck and shoulder.
"Soon," she said. She sounded happier, and stared obviously at his lips.
He wanted to put his arm around her, let her do whatever it is she's going to do to him. But they're holding the sword up between them. So he's content to feel the cold flesh of her inner arm pressed up against his.
She was still staring coquettishly at his mouth when the right question finally dawns on him.
Her smile widened as she leaned forward, twisting to fully to face him.
Her lips were just barely warmer than her arms, but soft, soft. So soft, like maybe what kissing a cloud would feel like. If clouds were corporeal. And his mind weren't racing.
"I'm waking up," he said without breaking away, noticing all the signs.
Her eyes squeezed shut even tighter and she kissed him harder, pressing their mouths fiercely.
He could feel her nodding against him. Sensed her slipping away.
He grasped the hilt of the sword as tight as he could as he spun up into the night sky.
Stiles sat straight up in bed, drenched in cool sweat, sputtering into wakefulness.
It wasn't even dawn yet, and his heart was racing. He fell back against his pillows with a groan and willed himself back to a fitful, dreamless sleep.
Scott was glaring pointedly at the side of Stiles' face, he could tell. He turned a charming, what are you going to do about it look on his friend and Scott slammed his locker shut. It looked like maybe he would say something, but he quickly shut his mouth again, leaving stiles with one last glare before stalking away.
Stiles continued to slowly redress and pack in his gear, oblivious to Danny's approach.
"You and McCall having trouble at home, Stiles?" he teased gently.
"Why? You interested, Danny?" Stiles joked back. "Thought I wasn't your type."
"You aren't." His teammate laughed it off.
Danny was a cool kid, if infuriatingly collected about being the only opening gay student in the athletic department. Maybe it was because there wasn't as much emotional investment in their friendship, but it didn't bother Stiles that Danny seemed to take notice of his change in mood lately. So it didn't really strike Stiles as meddling when he offered a little more friendliness than usual.
"I know you know, Stiles, that just because I'm gay doesn't mean I'm after every guy on the team."
Stiles nodded in agreement.
"So, if you need a break from McCall and all that Allison Argent drama, you're welcome to come out with me as like, my wingman sometime."
Danny smiled warmly and clapped Stiles on the shoulder as the shorter boy let the offer sink in.
"I'd like that. I could definitely use a break from all of... that." He gestured vaguely in the direction of Scott's locker while pulling a squeamish face. Both boys laughed heavily at the effect Stiles' motion had on the mood.
"Cool, man. Just let me know." Danny clapped Stiles' shoulder once more.
It'd been a long ride, but surprisingly the sun was just barely set when they arrived in the middle of nowhere. Or what would have been nowhere if it weren't for the dozens of cars parked all over, the hundreds of people roaming about, and the blast of over-amplified music ringing through the desert.
Danny had provided Stiles with a fake i.d. and a brief run through of how these parties usually went down. He'd coached Stiles on what not to say to Danny's potential catch and when to make himself scarce. Which was what Stiles was doing when he wandered toward the bar for a refill and noticed a wild girl dancing.
She was lithe and spontaneous, and stunningly captivating in a way Lydia Martin would never be. She wove her way in and out of a constantly shifting stream of partners, circling back now and again to her favorites. Dancing with a mischievous half-smile playing at her lips.
Her hair was long and tangled, her dress dark, her hips wide for her skinny frame. And she was so familiar. Stiles mentally kicked himself for being unable to place her face. He followed her movement continually, until she finally noticed him noticing her.
He smiled as she approached, faintly giddy with the music, the drink, and the lecherous thought of dancing with a beautiful girl. Even if it wasn't Lydia, whom he'd loved since third grade.
"Do I know you?" he asked with a silly grin. Which she returned.
"You must, with that look in your eye." Her voice jogged a foggy memory in his mind.
"Dance with me," she insisted, pulling him into the crowd.
He was falling back, into the desert. Onto a mattress someone had drug out there. She was writhing in his arms. Over him, under him, their lips barely parting. Her mouth bewitched him. His hands discovered her angles and planes. She was smooth and soft and angular. He was strong and gentle and seduced by her mischief.
His mouth broke away, gasping in lungfuls of dry desert air. Her hands fisted the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips found her ear, her neck, her clavicle. She shuddered under his touch, whimpered, goading him on.
It was hard to keep breathing. He fell away, ensnaring her fingers in his hand, she entangling her legs with his limbs.
He took her in. Fingertips roaming more slowly. He cataloged her features. She memorized the freckles of his face. His thumb fluttered over the heart-shaped marking on her inner arm.
"I must be dreaming," he murmured, turning to her. He ran his palm across her cheek, over her hair.
"No," she smiled. "We aren't asleep yet."
"Yes, we must be," he insisted dazedly. "There's no other explanation for this night."
He tugged her in closer once more, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her into the contours of himself. Lacing his fingers in her hair.
She nestled into the crook of his shoulder, pressed her lips to his chest. A comforting heat spread out through his body, radiating the warmth of her kiss back to her.
And everything was darkness.