queue: gone camping

Alright my VIPeeps, I’m heading into the mountains for the weekend. Enjoy your weekends, and stay out of the liquor cabinet. I’ve marked the bottles, and I’ll know if you add water.

Gone Camping || dereksinferno

He still couldn’t believe he was… here. He couldn’t believe something like this was happening to him. This was huge, major, inconceivable. But he was here, in a camp full of kids “like him.” Because, somehow, his mother was a fucking Greek Goddess of war and wisdom. WHAT? No really, WHAT? And apparently, the whole reason his dad had quit his job when Stiles was barely 11, moved from a tiny town in Northern California to the hustle-bustle of Boston, was to hide Stiles from monsters that would’ve… eaten him or something if they caught his friggin' scent. Now he was here, at 17, but his dad’s careful life planning had finally failed and last week a lamia had almost eaten him after lacrosse practice a few weeks ago. 

WHAT? (It bore repeating.)

Stiles trudged through the camp, eyes wide and mouth wider. He stopped outside a God-honest forge. The heat was almost unbearable- seeing as it was almost summer- but there was a dude in there pounding away at cherry-red metal with an angry scowl on his face. Stiles leaned against the open doorway and watched, hands shoved deep in his pockets. Despite the heat, this was probably the least overwhelming place in the camp (he saw kids fighting with fucking swords in a miniature gladiator ring). “So, Hephaestus?” Stiles couldn’t help but blurt out loud, unable to last long in silence.