its_a_workin_progres



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  1. Summary

    Loki looks down his nose as the humans bumbling about on the streets below. He watches from afar not wanting to taint his custom leather coat with the rotten smell of the beings. He rolls his neck, cracking it sharply as he pulls his eyebrows into a deep frown and his lips curl into a sneer.
    Useless. Fragile. Worthless.
    …Just like him…
    He failed in the most spectacular manner in the weakest realm. It only makes sense he lives (hides) out his days among them.
    Green mist swirls at his feet and his eyes gleam with power. Quick as a whip, his head flung back in a silent scream and gone was the image of Loki he was known for. Instead, was a man no older than mid-twenties with shaggy brown hair tied into a bun, glasses, round and wide, a long trench coat coloured maroon atop of the comfiest navy blue sweater he’s ever worn. He decided to keep his eyes green, they’re a lot less bright then they had been, but green nonetheless.
    Now the only question is; when and where to go?

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    Derek doesn’t want to call the window repair guy. He doesn’t want to sweep up the glass. He’ll inevitably miss a few shards and pull them out of the bottom of his bare feet for weeks.

    He doesn’t want to try to make this place feel like home when it isn’t.

    Derek stayed in Beacon Hills and tried to make it work because he wanted pack, wanted purpose. He gave his best effort and found himself back where he started: alone, with a few begrudging allies. He’s tired, and even though his werewolf body heals quickly, he feels the weary ache down to his center.

    He packs his car with the few things he cares about enough to drag them from place to place. He locks the loft and calls a realtor about listing the building he’d bought in a misguided attempt to secure a future.

    And then he leaves.

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    17 Jan 2026

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    It was like a door he’d nailed shut in his brain suddenly exploded open, all of his past confusion and anger and hurt and adoration flooding out at once. Stiles? Was it actually Stiles?!

    Stiles, the guy he’d had a crush on for fucking years growing up. The guy who’d been an absolute dick to him their whole last year of high school.

    The guy who’d told him he loved him in a dirty men’s bathroom on prom night while drunk and upset because he thought Kira was Derek’s girlfriend.

    That Stiles? But it couldn’t be!

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    14 Jan 2026

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    “Okay.” Stiles glanced at his phone, wincing at the battery being close to ten percent. It was probably time to call Scott. Turning off the flashlight, mostly to save battery and kind of freaking out over how dark it was—though the half-moon reflecting off the snow helped a bit—he opened his contacts with shaking hands and scrolled through to Scott’s name. Once he hit it, he put the phone to his ear, looking around, and froze.

    The phone rang in his ear, but his eyes were locked on something big and moving through the trees.

    Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

    If that was a fucking bear, Stiles was fucked!

    The line kept ringing and ringing, but Scott didn’t answer. Eventually his voicemail picked up and Stiles very slowly lowered the phone and hung up without looking, eyes still on the dark shape in the trees. He glanced down for only a second to turn on the flashlight function again, then lifted it ever so slowly upwards, and felt his breath freeze in his lungs.

    It was a wolf.

    It was a motherfucking wolf.

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    13 Jan 2026

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    “What’s that?” Stiles asked, beer at his lips.

    “Poem,” she said.

    “For Derek,” Jackson explained with a snort, taking a sip of his drink. “He got it at work.”

    “Really?” Stiles arched an eyebrow at him. “From who?”

    Derek shrugged, his arms crossed over his chest, and watched as Stiles reached out for the page, tugging the end lightly until Kira let it go so he could give it a read.

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    12 Jan 2026

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    “I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!”

    Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her.

    “What?! What was that sound?!”

    “You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder.

    “Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!”

    “Mike,” she argued.

    “Who’s Mike?” Scott asked.

    “Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

    Language:
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    12 Jan 2026