spectral passage

anonymous asked:

congrats on the followers! for the prompt thing: derek lost his second chance at fixing their relationship when stiles comes home with a human boyfriend? but its clear that stiles lives for the supernatual, and for derek.. maybe? if you dig it, thats cool


(I’m taking so long doing these, sorry!!)

Three evenings after he arrives home, Stiles comes to the loft.

He doesn’t bother to knock or wait, doesn’t ask for permission. Just slides his way in the way he’d managed to slide under Derek’s skin years ago, leaving the door half open behind him as he trails a few steps in and pauses.

Derek’s reclining back on the bed, reading in the last dregs of sunlight.

(Feigning reading, and he hates that he’s been reduced to that. That he hasn’t absorbed a single word since he’d heard that old battered engine pulling into the lot, that he’d had to hold himself still because he doesn’t know what he would have done with himself otherwise. If he would have run out to meet him, to drink in the sight and the scent of him after nearly a year away… or if he just would’ve run.)

He forces his breaths to stay steady and even, slides his eyes casually up from the page to take in Stiles’ form – hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched inward, chin defiantly high. Derek lifts his eyebrows, expectant, not trusting his mouth not to disappoint him.

And Stiles says:

“I’m seeing someone.”

Derek feels the flinch in his face as the words whip over him, sharp and biting beneath his best defenses. Derek can’t explain how Stiles always manages that. Manages to just be under his skin, without trying.

He keeps his breathing even, lets his expression smooth back out.


“He’s a great guy. Nice. Really smart, pre-law. He’s not involved in any of this…” One hand comes out of his pocket, waves around vaguely, seemingly to encompass Derek’s everything. “But that’s good, right? Since you basically told me to get the hell out of this life before I left.”

That had been four years ago, the last time they’d really spoken to each other besides half-hearted greetings during Stiles’ breaks. The last time Stiles had looked at him like he was really seeing him and his eyes weren’t just skating over.

Four years ago, when Stiles had come to him, expression fierce and determined, and kissed him, and Derek had turned him away.

It’s not exactly what Derek had said, not the way he’d said it, but this isn’t the time to argue semantics. There’s no point in it anyway.

Stiles is seeing someone. Someone human. Someone safe and normal and not likely to get him killed simply by existing.

It’s better this way.

“He’s good to you?”

It slips out before he can help it, a little rough. It makes Stiles shift, shoulders untensing, head ducking with a hint of a smile.

“Yeah, he’s always really… he’s good.”

“Good,” Derek echoes, and forces his eyes back to his book.

There’s a sharp intake of air at the clear dismissal, the sound of gritting teeth. A dragging pause, a disbelieving huff, and the sound of retreating feet. The door slides shut hard enough to leave it rattling.

Derek waits until he hears the coughing kick of the jeep starting up again before he flings the book hard enough that he hears the spine break. Then he lies back on his bed, and watches the sky bleed from crimson to black.

Keep reading

Third, capital, the spawn of alienated labor, is demonic and vampiric. It is a nonactual sensuous shape, a ghost whose source of movement lies outside itself. But it has reversed the direction of living labor’s appropriation of the external world and appropriated the source of life. […] By parasitically draining the life from labor, the circuit of commodification and the money form transmute capital into a vital being that endlessly augments its own value.
—  Pheng Cheah, Spectral Nationality: Passages of Freedom from Kant to Postcolonial Literatures of Liberation, 197-98