the-mess-sterek-left-behind:
trilliath:
A little older, a little rougher…
@hoechlbutt Charlie..
Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Let’s do this … @the-mess-sterek-left-behind @hoechlbutt
Amazing artwork by @trilliath
(*This is my first time & i whipped this up in like 30 minutes, i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry :/*)
It’s been ten years since Derek last stepped foot in Beacon
Hills and it all went downhill pretty fast. As a hot bed for supernatural
activity it drew all the bad things in and kicked most of the good things out
but Derek has received a desperate call from one Scott McCall two nights prior
begging for his help.
So here he was, he just wasn’t expecting the pack of feral
Werewolves to jump him the moment he stepped over the town line. Nor was he
expecting a beaten up, faded, crappy old Jeep to pull up quickly next to him or
for a lean, scarred and gun-toting Stiles to slide out and save his arse.
“Stiles?” Derek asks in a mixture of shock and awe.
Stiles lets out a spray of wolfsbane infused bullets on the
remaining Were’s, placing his foot heavily on one’s torso and releasing a full
clip into its head.
“Hey man,” he greets with a wry smile, as if he hadn’t just
massacred half a dozen supernatural beings. “Let’s get outta here.”
Ten minutes later they are in Derek’s old loft, where
apparently the remaining pack members have taken up residence. Not much had
been said on the way over, Derek had been shocked into silence by what he had
seen remaining of the place he had once called home.
“Stiles, what the hell-” Derek words cut off in a garble of
nonsense as he watches Stiles pull off his blood stained Henley.
He tugs the material over his head, hissing in pain as he
turns to inspect the damage done to his shoulder by a set of well-aimed claws.
He’s changed a lot since Derek last saw him, gone is the fluffy haired kid. Now
he is all lean muscle, not an inch of fat on his body, his entire upper body covered
in tattoos, some of which Derek recognised as magical runes and symbols. A
pretty impressive piece of two wolves intertwined covers his right shoulder and
continues onto his back. A lot of the tattoos are interrupted by scars and
burns.
A million thoughts filter through Derek’s mind and he can’t
quite grip onto one.
Stiles shuffles around in his pocket and pulls out a packet
of smokes and a lighter. Settling his butt on the large industrial window and
kicking up his combat boot covered feet, he lights up. Inhaling deeply as his
eyes close in pleasure, resting his elbow on his propped up knee he looks at
Derek from the corner of his eye, head tilted as he continues to smoke lazily.
God he’s beautiful,
Derek thinks, taking in his whisky coloured irises. He pushes down the sudden
and unexpected wave of arousal that fills his veins and stalks toward Stiles.
“What the fuck have you dragged me into?”
“You’re going to want to take a seat.” Stiles husky voice
croaks out, mouth smiling but eyes haunted in a way Derek had only ever seen in
his own reflection.
This isn’t going to be
good.
FUCKING HELL THIS IS AMAZING AND WOAH THANK YOU FOR TAGGING ME!!! Awesome writing for awesome fanart *^*
shealwaysreads 