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jawritter · 1 year

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Dean’s Birthday Surprise

Summary: Y/N get’s Dean a kinky surprise for his 44th Birthday!

Warnings: 18 + Only!! HERE THERE BE SMUT!!!! NO ONE UNDER 18 SHOULD READ THIS FIC!!! Crotchless panties, girl on top, fingering, language, nudity. P & V smut.

Written For: @spnkinkevents

Prompt: Crotchless Panties

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2k

A/N: A little something I through together for our best boy’s birthday! This fic is completely unbeta’d, so all mistakes are mine! Feedback is golden! Enjoy!

Main Masterlist

Dean’s POV:

Dean felt old, and he hated every minute of it.

Honestly, he never expected to live to see 44 years of age. He figured he was gonna die bloody as a young man. When he was 43 he came damn close to it.

Still, here he stands. Alive, well, and more than a little depressed.

He couldn't understand it really, how he got old. One minute he was a young man, hunting, and had the ladies eating out of the palm of his hand. Next, he was being told her had "dad bod", whatever the fuck that was.

Logically, Dean knew he wasn't old, he just didn't expect to live this long. He didn't know what to do with his life from here. Sure, he had Y\N, but how long could he expect that to last really? She was young, beautiful, smart, hell, he was surprised every day he woke up and she was still laying with her head on his chest. Fuck if he'd ever understand why she loved him, but she said she did.

"Happy birthday handsome," her voice sounded from behind him as her arms wrapped around his middle, and her head rested on his back. Good he didn't deserve her. She was far too perfect for him. Still, he was selfish, and he loved her, so he did everything he could to make her stay.

"Thanks," he managed to croak out after clearing his throat. He stopped the sponge in his hand into the soap filled bucket at his feet so that he could rest his hand on top of hers.

"You gonna take her for a spin now that you got her all clean?" She questioned, sliding herself around to stand in front of him moving her hands to rest on his shoulders.

Dean hummed before pressing his lips to her own in a brief kiss. To brief for his liking, normally he was much more thorough. He was just so trapped in his head. Maybe a drive would do him some good. Being alone in Baby always helped clear his head.

"Yeah, I think I will…"

"Good," she quipped quickly. "Cause when you get home I got a surprise for my favorite birthday boy."

"Aw baby," Dean said with an exhausted sigh. " I told you that you didn't have to make a fuss over me."

"No argument Mr.! "She fussed, shoving his shoulders playfully and earning a genuine smirk from him. "Now, you go take a ride, clear your head so you can get out of whatever headspace you're trapped in there, and we're gonna have some time alone with the bunker all to ourselves."

Dean sighed heavily before leaning forward to peck her lips again.

"Where's Sammy gonna be?" Dean questioned, turning to stare at his girl, who was leaning against her bright red, classic Mustang. Admiring him like he was the most gorgeous thing she'd ever seen. God he really, really didn't deserve her.

"He and Eileen have a date tonight, and he said he's already planning to stay there at her house," Y/N answered. "Now GO! I got to get ready for your present."

"Fine, fine," Dean waved her off and opened the car door, shaking his head in disbelief at this woman and how she could possibly love him.

Y/N POV:

Three hours later, Y/N found herself standing in front of the bathroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup with nothing on but a short, black silk robe, and a pair of lace, crotchless panties.

Normally, Dean wasn't much for theatrics. 'They're just gonna end up on the floor anyway', he says, but Y/N knew that he enjoyed these kinda things more than he wanted to admit. He just didn't want her to feel like she HAD to do this kinda thing for him. Like he didn't deserve the extra attention. Y/N disagree, honestly she wished he'd let her do more. She would just have to settle for birthdays and special occasions, today just happened to be Dean's birthday.

Besides, when he saw her in this, she was pretty sure that he wasn’t gonna have enough blood left in his brain to argue about it with her anyway.

She quickly brushed her hand through her hair to give herself some volume, and smiled victorious at the image of the woman she’d created staring back at her. She was quite proud of this look if she did say so herself.

As if on cue, Y/N heard the distinct sound of the bunker garage door closing, and she knew she had just a few minutes before Dean came wandering into their shared room. He was very much a creature of habit, or else this surprise would have been a lot harder to pull off.

Still, knowing Dean the way she did, she hurried to position herself on the bed, first trying laying in her side, but that didn’t really work for, then she tried laying her back, but that really didn’t do it, so she tried a fail safe, something she knew Dean enjoyed, even if he didn’t want to admit that he enjoyed it, and that was her on her knees, in the middle of the bed, waiting for him like the good girl he loved so much.

She had no more loosened the ties on her kaminio, revealing the perfect swells of her supple breast, than the bedroom door cracked open, and Dean stepped in, still looking at his phone.

“Hey baby, I’m hungry, I’m think about ordering a piz—”

Dean’s words died somewhere in his throat when he looked up to find Y/N kneeling in the center of the bed, legs spread just enough to not reveal too much, but enough to be inviting, and nothing but a thin, black slick gathering of fabric covering his prize. His phone slipped from his fingers, and landed on the floor along with his jaw, and she couldn’t help but smirk in victory.

“Happy birthday De,” she voiced as he started to robotically kick off his shoes, as well as shed his jacket, attempting to shed all of the layers he had on as fast as he possibly could. “Why don’t you come on over here and open up your present?”

She didn’t have to tell him twice, as he ripped his shirt off his head, leaving a cute, hedgehog hairstyle behind. He was already working his belt and jeans loose before he started to move towards the bed, hungry green eyes taking in all that they could devour.

“Goddamit baby girl, you’re gonna give a man a heart attack,” Dean mumbled as he climbed onto the bed knees first. His hands already reached for her hips to pull her as flush to him as she could before their lips collided with one another in a deep, need filled kiss.

“So I take it that you like it then,” she questioned as she pulled away from him, leaving him chasing her kiss with the most adorable disgruntled face. Almost as if he was confused and offended at her for taking her lips away from his too soon.

“Fuck yeah I do,” he said, his thick, capable fingers already pulling the thin black tigh loose, causing her covering to fall apart, and reveal his real resent underneath.

“Are those crotchless,” his graveled voice trimmed down from his perfect, pink, kiss swollen lips in almost a whisper.

Y/N shrugged, smirking. “Well Dean, you said that these kinda things are pointless because they always ended up on the floor anyway, so I decided I’d save you the trouble and just get a pair of easy access ones that can stay on.”

As she spoke, Dean’s mouth attacked her throat, laying the pair of them back onto the bed behind her carefully. His cock already hard and straining against his black boxers, begging to be released, so she obliged, and slid them down his hips so that he could kick them off, leaving himself bare before her.

“How did I get so damn lucky?” Dean questioned just as his perfect mouth sealed over her already erect nipple from the cool temperature of the room contrasting with the fire that Dean was already stoking inside of her. His fingers slipped between her folds, teasing her already sensitive clit as he worked her over, making it harder and harder for her to concentrate. “So fucking beautiful Y/N.”

“Pretty sure I’m the lucky one De,” she managed to say between desperate pants as Dean moved over to the other breast, determined to not leave anyone out, and slipped his thick fingers into her slick heat with ease, curing them in all the right places as he slowly pumped them in and out of her dripping cunt, causing the cord in her stomach to wind tighter and tighter until she was cumming undone underneath him, screaming his name like a prayer.

“So fucking beautiful Y/N/N,” he repeated as he kissed his way back up to her face, leaving as many little wet, opened mouthed kisses as he could muster as he did while she slowly decended from the high he’d driven her too.

“Your turn handsome, it is your birthday after all,” she tried to sit up, but he stopped her, his wide palm resting softly against her shoulder to hold her back down as he pumped his pink, fully erect, leaking cock in his hand.

“No, no princess, it’s my present, and I”ll play with it however I want too, and baby I wanna watch,” he growled as he carefully slid his swollen length through her slick, gathering as much of her juices as he could before sliding into welcoming center, moaning audibly as he watched her body close in around him, covered in black lace.

He pumped slowly there, watching his body disappear into her own, mesmerized by sight that lay underneath him, and she shivered as each slow drag of his manhood through her quivering cunt drover her too damn near insanity, stretching her and filling her, but never quite giving her what she needed.

Without warning, Dean flipped the pair of them over, settling her on top of him so that he could watch her more easily, totally and completely captivated, like a man starved, or a blind man seeing for the first time. She would never understand why he always looked at her like that. Not when she felt like the lucky one.

Dean was a man of few words, but he didn’t have to say anything as she slowly rose and lowered herself on his dick, causing him to toss his head back and his eyes to roll momentarily as his hips rose and feel to meet her pace until neither of them could take it anymore and she began to ride him in earnest. Leaving the room filled with sounds of heavy breath and skin against skin.

Dean’s thick fingers sank deep into her thighs as he rolled his hips up to meet her, he was so close, she could see it in the way he strained to hold on as long as he could, drag it out as long as possible, until his body was shaking underneath her own, and his dick twitched heavily as he came deep inside of her, triggering her own release as well.

“Sammy’s gone all night you said?” Dean panted as helped her off of his softening cock to lay down on his heaving chest,

“Yep, all night,” she chuckled.

“Good,” he replied, “cause in fifteen minutes we’re going again.”

Forever:

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ohraicodoll · 1 year

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Honey

Joel Miller x f!Reader The Last of Us 3.2k Words/ 3rd POV Feral Reader Masterlist Summary: The first time there was an excuse, the second time was just about release. (If you’ve read the other stories, this would take place after Monsters/Teeth in the timeline. Have a little smut fic to make up for all the angst I’ve been writing.)

Warning: Explicit sexual content (18+ Minors DNI) “ With just a little taste of wasting time Looking for honey But she stings like she means it She's mean and she's mine “ It’d been a hard day.

The vehicle they’d manage to steal from the survivalist’s cabin didn’t last long. For all that group had worked and prepared their fortress, they hadn’t kept up with the maintenance on the car and it had crapped out after a couple of days, even driving slowly. They were back to walking, the dream of quickly getting to Wyoming vanishing. They’d hit a town that had seemed mostly empty, but there’d been a pocket of infected that had swarmed. It was pure luck that there had been no Clickers, only Runners, but it’d been a close call. Now they were holed up on the second floor of a shop, Joel having barricaded the stairs leading up to it and securing the whole floor while she helped set up for the night. They were exhausted and Ellie was a little extra quiet, rubbing her eyes and using some of the water they managed to get out of the pipes into a bucket to scrub out the blood off her jacket. She was still covered in it too, feeling it stick and crust to her neck and cheek, her hands. Joel sat down and they all ate out of cold cans in silence, only the clink of their spoons breaking the gloom. “Those runners…they were newer infected, weren’t they?” Ellie said gloomily. She sighed and Joel chewed slowly, looking up at the teen from beneath a furrowed brow, “They were most likely a group passing through. Got bit and all of them turned. The newer ones tend to be the fastest.” Ellie hummed thoughtfully and shrugged, “Maybe that means there’s not many infected left here if they were the only ones to come out? That mean we’re safe up here?” “Or they’re trapped inside the buildings,” she responded, not wanting to kill her hope but also being realistic, “But we’ll hear if anyone comes in and the barricade should delay them. We’re safe enough.” The young girl nodded and sighed, finishing her food and setting the can aside, “Okay…I’m gonna go to bed. I’m tired.” She sent her a soft “goodnight” and finished her food quietly, the light of the lantern between them all that was lighting the room. She was still wired from the fight, sleep not finding her any time soon. Without saying a word to her companion, she stood and went over to the bucket and picked it up before walking a little bit away to one of the mirrors the store had hanging on the far wall. Clothing racks and shelves were toppled everywhere, moth eaten rags hanging from them and trash littering the ground. She pulled over a cement block nearby and sat on it near the mirror, grabbing a rag off the rack and dipping it into the water. It wasn’t safe to drink but they could at least use it to clean up. The mirror was stained and dirty, foggy from years of neglect and exposure to whatever was in the air. She couldn’t see her reflection fully but could see enough to try and clean the crusted blood off her skin. It came off in flakes from her hands, blood and dirt leading way to clean skin. Boots walked towards her and she paused, looking up as Joel joined her along the shadowed wall, face always that tilted down frown and furrowed brow. He chewed on the inside of his cheek and looked at the water and rag before grabbing another cement block and scooting it in front of her, “Here. You can’t see shit in that thing, I’ll do it.” They hadn’t spoken about that night in the cabin. That night when he’d came and joined her on the floor, has slipped his fingers into her to help her relax and then fucked her into the ground. They’d woken up and went on like it never happened and hadn’t changed a thing. But something was different. They both felt it and didn’t want to acknowledge it. She knew he’d keep bugging her until she gave in so she handed him the rag with a roll of her eyes, turning to face him, their knees pressed together. He took it and dipped it into the water then his calloused fingers held her chin, holding it in place as he passed the rag over her cheek. They didn’t speak, didn’t even make eye contact, but there was a tension suddenly there the moment his skin touched hers. He was being gentle and it unnerved her because Joel was never gentle. Especially not with her. They were at each other’s throats constantly, Ellie being their only glue together. “You shouldn’t have used your knife on those,” he grunted and the sound wrapped around her in the darkness, “Too easy to get bit. If you had ran I coulda shot them.” “Bullets are a bit valuable nowadays, Tex, and I had it handled,” she bit out as he turned her face the other way to get the blood under her ear, “Using the knife conserves bullets.” “It’s not gonna conserve anything if I have to put one in your head because you got infected,” Joel hissed and his fingers pressed a little harder into her skin to emphasize the point. The pressure on her skin sent tiny sparks through her and her heart beat a little faster, his touch and smell all around her not helping at all. “Well if that happens you can say I told you so,” she rolled eyes and tried to not to focus on the slow drag of the cloth as it moved down her neck. Abruptly, he jerked her forward and her hands had to brace on his thighs to keep from toppling onto him. His fingers dug into her chin hard enough she wondered if it would bruise later on, his eyes dark and searing into her even covered by shadows. “Or you can fucking be careful and listen to me,” he growled, breath coasting along her face from his proximity. “Yes, sir,” she answered sarcastically, nose wrinkling with a raised lip. Something shifted in those dark irises and she caught the flicker of his eyes as they dipped to her lips, “Give me attitude and I’ll have you saying that while you fucking beg me.” Her skin was suddenly on fire, tightening at his words, aware of the muscle of his thighs underneath her hands. She felt hot and swallowed, aware he could feel the action with his hand still on her chin, “Sorry to break it to ya, but I’m not begging you for shit.” But then his mouth was smashing into hers, teeth cutting into her lip, and the hand with the rag curling around her neck. She could feel the cool water drip down her skin and run along her chest, the feeling icy against her heated skin. Kissing Joel was like drowning and she let herself, pressing back hard against his mouth and pushing her tongue between his lips, drinking in his groan as she did so. His hand briefly left her skin to ease himself off the cement block and onto the ground before he dragged her down into his lap, knees braced on either side of his thighs. She could feel him beneath her, already hard and pressing against her, the knowledge shooting straight to her core. She sucked on his lower lip, biting and sucking and letting him explore her mouth, his beard rough against her skin. The hand on her chin went to her waist and dug into the fabric of her shirt, pressing her harder against him and his hips rocked a bit, grinding his hard member into her through their jeans. She moaned softly, not wanting to attract the attention of the sleeping teen yards away. The rag in his other hand slid along her neck and he broke away to latch onto the newly cleaned skin there, biting into the spot just under her ear. She bit her tongue to keep her sounds at bay and dove her hand into his hair, gripping the salt and pepper curls tightly in her fist. The day had left her running on adrenaline, raw and vibrating, and she knew exactly what this was. A release. A way for them to get their energy out after fighting for their lives. There were worse ways to handle it. For all that Joel drove her crazy, losing herself in him had its appeal like now when she could touch and caress every part of him that had managed to snag her attention. She ran her hand over the tense muscles of his neck as he continued to press open mouth kisses along her own, biting and licking and sucking his way along the path the rag had cleaned the blood away. Her hand moved to the hard muscles of his biceps, the patch of hair at the opening of his shirt, the rough skin of his stomach after she untucked his shirt. He was untouchable in the day, out there on the road, but she’d take this moment and use it to explore what she could while she had the chance. She ached, need pulsing as he sucked on a particularly sensitive spot at the base of her neck, and ground down into him. He hissed and broke away, resting his forehead against her shoulder, “Fuck. You’re fucking impatient, darlin.” “I’m not impatient,” she rocked against him again and could feel him move to meet the motion, “I’m showing you what needs attention, Miller.” He dropped the rag and grabbed the back of her neck, raising his face to meet hers, their noses touching, “Joel. When I fuck you, you say my name. Not Miller, not Tex. Joel.” She skimmed her lips along his and grinned mockingly, canines showing, “Yes, sir.” He growled and pressed his lips back against hers bruisingly, the kiss a messy clash of teeth and tongue as if they were trying to fight against one another. His hand on her hip moved to the front of her jeans and began to unbutton them, hands jerky and rushed, practically ripping them open and shoving his hand inside. Joel swallowed her moan when his fingers found her mound, sliding through her lips and feeling the slickness there already. He rubbed back and forth and let her rock against his hand, talking against her mouth, “This where you’re needing attention?” “It ain’t obvious?” she huffed and shuddered as his thumb found her clit, pressing hard against it and making her jerk. Slowly he pushed two fingers into her, using her wet arousal to stretch her and slide in and out. His mouth moved back to her neck, listening as her breath left her in raspy moans almost silent around him. He started so slow, letting her get used to him, and then started pumping faster and harder. The friction of jeans, his rough hand, and his own jerky motions of his hips felt delicious and she clawed at his shoulder to brace herself, the other still tangled in his hair. “God, you’re so fucking wet,” he growled against her neck, scraping his beard across her sensitive skin. She could feel the beginning of her orgasm growing, the coil in her tightening and threatening to snap at any moment. His fingers were so thick inside of, filling her up, as his thumb kept circling and pressing down on her clit. And she was almost embarrassingly wet, knowing it was soaking through her jeans and covering his hand. Then, abruptly, he stopped and she gripped his hair and tugged his head painfully back as he removed his hand, “Miller-” “What’d I say ‘bout my name?” he snarled at her, the sound going straight to her throbbing center, “You beggin’ already?” Her tongue was pressed to the top of her teeth, eyebrow raised, as she shook her head in defiance. Instead she ground against him and the hard, straining member beneath his jeans. He was clenching his teeth, eyes fluttering shut briefly at the motion, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he fought hard to restrain himself. But she didn’t want him restrained and she certainly wasn’t going to beg. One of them was going to give in and it wasn’t going to be her. Joel Miller, for all his cleverness and practically, was not a patient man. The hand that had been inside her came up and stroked her chin, then her mouth, rubbing along her bottom lip as he watched. She continued to rock against him and scraped her nails against his scalp, then she teasingly touched her tongue to the thumb along her lip. Joel’s eyes flashed to hers and stayed there, burning in the darkness of the room, as she licked his thumb and let it slide into her mouth, sucking on it. She could taste her own arousal on his finger, the salt and slight grime still there. It was all Joel, perfect and rough and bitter. Her lips wrapped around the digit, pulling it into her hot wet mouth, her tongue licking him clean. His breath was coming out in heavy rapid pants, his other hand digging onto her thigh and sliding to her clothed ass, clenching it. Not once did she break eye contact. Even as her teeth scraped against his skin and her hand went to his belt buckle, she stayed watching him and seeing the fire light up in his dark irises. Then finally he snapped, the first to break. Before she could blink, he had pulled his thumb from her mouth and was lifting her up to her feet to rip her jeans down her legs. He did it swiftly, not caring if the tugging hurt or if he was jostling her around. He got them off her legs while she smirked and as she stood in front of him, he grabbed her thigh and yanked her forward, his mouth finding her cunt while one of his own hands moved to unbuckle his belt and jeans. She had to bite down on her lip to keep from making a sound, eyes flickering to where Ellie was still fast asleep, and sank her hand back into his hair to press his face against her. His tongue lapped at her desperately, beard rubbing against her sensitive skin, lips wrapping and sucking on her clit. It was exquisite, her legs shaking as he managed to coax her pleasure back to life. It was sloppy and rough and fast, her brain struggling to catch up to the lightning flaring up inside of her. His tongue dipped into her and she rocked against his face, desperate to find release. He hummed against her soaking warmth and then sucked hard on her clit, her orgasm hitting her so hard she had to brace herself on his shoulders to keep standing. It was fireworks, a lighting storm, everything hitting her at once as she came hard on his tongue. Joel gently coaxed her back into sitting on his lap, his jeans pulled down and his erection out and heavy against his thigh. She was still trying to catch her breath, hands resting on his naked thighs and head resting on his shoulder. His hand combed through her hair and tugged, using it to straighten back up and look at him, “Uh uh, darlin, I’m not done with you yet.” He kissed her roughly, her own taste all over his tongue and coating her mouth, while he pumped himself a few times. She groaned into his mouth, breathy little pants leaving her, then he was lifting her up to position her over his throbbing cock. She was still so sensitive and as she sank down onto him she squeezed her eyes tightly, biting down on her lips and pressing her forehead to his. Her being on top gave them a new angle that hit differently than last time, letting him fill her completely and hitting every spot that had sparks singing inside her skin. Fuck, he felt good and she had to fight so hard to keep from moaning out loud, could feel it in her throat wanting release. “That’s it,” he hummed to her, voice catching with his own moan, “Fuck, darlin’. I could come right now from being inside you.” Secretly, she was pleased to hear the praise and not be the only one affected. Sex had been good last time, but there’d been a tentative dance to it. Breaching the gap and testing the waters to see if they were on the same page. Now they both knew there was an attraction there and even if they hadn’t spoken about it, hadn’t said exactly what it was or if it had been a one time thing, there wasn’t a hesitation to jump that gap again. She started to move, lifting herself up and down, feeling him slide against the walls inside of her. Those sparks had started up again, building tight in her lower stomach and growing with each move. He began meeting her pace, thrusting up into her while leaning forward and placing hot kisses along her throat. His teeth found her collar bone, the small tattooed stars, and he nipped at them while his hands gripped her waist. He helped her bob up and down on him, starting slow and letting her get used to him. But she didn’t want it to be slow, didn’t want his gentleness. Bending down to his good ear, she breathily moaned and let his name slip out of her, “Joel.” And then the pace turned frantic and hard, his arms banding around her body and him thrusting his hips up into her wildly. His cock hit deep and the feeling bordered on pain, but it only intensified everything. She was soaking his lap in her arousal and his fingers were bruising her waist. It was overwhelming in its intensity, her already sensitive clit rubbing against the base of his erection, and she was climbing higher and higher. She wanted to drown in the feeling, lose herself in him and forget the world around them. Forget she was still covered in blood, forget her name, forget everything but this feeling of overwhelming pleasure. Then she was coming, whispering his name over and over again, him thrusting through her orgasm. She felt the moment he followed her, warmth filling her up completely as his release came inside of her and his movements became wild and slow. He held her tightly on his lap and her arms were around his shoulders, forehead resting against the side of his head. The silence began to seep back, awareness outside of their panting breaths, and the heat died down. She tried not to notice how he pressed one final, soft kiss to her collar bone before straightening up, his eyes meeting hers. “I didn’t beg,” she whispered, voice husky and raw from holding in her sounds. Joel huffed out a chuckle, eyes flickering to her lips then moving away, “Don’t sound so cocky, there’s still next time.” Next time. The words rolled around in her mouth and she tried not to feel pleased that there would in fact be a next time. Because it was something, some form of endearment towards her, outside of the constant bickering and getting after her. She smirked, “We’ll see, Joel.” _______________________ Tag List: @alouise20 @faceache111

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iboatedhere · 8 months

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I saw the word "farmhouse" in the Henry POV chapter and promptly lost it. Thanks @rmd-writes @pragmatic-optimist and @welcometololaland for all the hand-holding you've done and will continue to do.

Tagging @rmd-writes @welcometololaland @lemonlyman-dotcom @beautifulhigh @basilsunrise @ramblingdisaster73

It takes two trips to unload everything he bought. The stairs are one challenge and David is another, twirling around his feet, happy to see him even though he was only gone for a short time.

He changes into his designated work jeans, already broken in and comfortable with a tear at the left knee and a stubborn leather polish stain on the thigh, and one of Alex’s old t-shirts, so old and threadbare he’s surprised it surprised the journey from Brooklyn.

He takes off his wedding ring and leaves it in the gold keepsakes box on the top of their dresser, not willing to take any chances after losing it in the barn. They had found both their rings almost side by side the morning after with the metal detector. Alex had started waxing lyrical about how it must have been fate and Henry, who was so thankful to have the ring back tucked both rings safely into the front pocket of his shirt then hauled Alex into the tack room then dropped to his knees to thank him.

In his office he pushes all the boxes out of the way then lays the drop cloths over everything. He tapes off the baseboard and around the ceiling and all the electrical outlets and switches.

He sits back on the floor and surveys the work he’s already done, knowing he hasn’t even done the hard part yet.

Primer, Matt had said, was an important first step.

Henry puts the first coat on too thick and it drips off the roller onto the cloth, immediately proving their worth.

He learns from his mistakes and gets the proper coating of primer on the wall, stopping halfway to throw the windows open and fetch a fan from downstairs to cut down on drying time and help ventilate the fumes.

He’d never hear the end of it from Alex if he’s almost passed out again.

While the primer dries he takes a break for lunch and takes David on a walk. Back upstairs he cracks open the bucket of Oak Grove, a moss green that reminds him of early spring at Balmoral.

He’s halfway through the second coat when Alex arrives, stepping through the front door with a loud “honey, I’m home,” greeting.

“Upstairs,” Henry calls.

“Still?” Alex hollers, followed by the sound of him climbing the stairs taking them two at a time. “Did you pass out from the fumes?”

“Not once,” Henry promises as Alex slides into the doorway and huffs.

“Holy fuck.”

“Do you like it?” Henry asks, stepping back and admiring his work. “I can’t believe how many colors there are to choose from. Do you know that there are one hundred seventy seven different shades of white?”

“Does it remind you of looking at your family tree?”

“Need I remind you you’re now a part of that tree? A little dash connects me to you forever.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that everyone else is beige to extra beige and that’s not what I was talking about.”

“But do you like the color? I thought maybe it was too dark but there’s plenty of light from the windows—.”

“I wasn’t talking about the color I was talking about you. Jesus tits, look at you.”

Henry looks down at his paint splattered outfit. “What about it?”

“What about—what about it? It’s everything. It’s unlocking a very specific fantasy that I never knew I needed. It’s like you’re the hot handyman and I’m the overworked, under-sexed—.”

“You have never once been under-sexed your entire adult life.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Handyman Henry, or I'll...dock your pay? No, that’s a douchebag move, I would never do that and depending on the contract you signed–illegal. Are you in a union? What am I talking about, this is my sexual fantasy, of course you’re in a union.”

“My god. You’re worried about my contract but not the legality of propositioning your employee?

“Who said I was going to be the one propositioning you? Nah, you’re gonna come onto me.”

“Am I now?”

Alex hums and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m gonna be in the kitchen making my dinner for one and you’re gonna come downstairs with a wound that needs to be tended to.”

“How do I wound myself?”

“I don’t know…opening a paint can? Don’t you have to shove a little thing under the rim and pop it out?”

“These cans actually have a very convenient pour spout. Matt, the clerk at the hardware store said it was a new feature. He's a nice kid. I thought he had a bit of a crush on me.”

“Of course he did, look at you.”

“Turns out he’s a fan of both of us.”

“Of course he is, look at me.”

“I am looking at you. I’m looking at you leaning against wet paint.”

“Oh shit,” Alex says as he pulls himself away from the wall.

#rwrb #rwrb fic #firstprince #firstprince fic #wip wednesday

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mybabydenkikaminari · 1 year

Text

Compilation of Rlain and Renarin references and mentions of each other

Hi everyone! I have become obsessed with my two babes since I finished RoW and I haven’t found any compilation of all the times they talk about each other, so here we are. There are not a lot of them but the list will grow so much in the Knights of Wind and Truth, that I wanted to be ready!! And If you are wondering, yes I am sure that I have every single one of them (thanks to the Stormfather that we can search for words with Kindle). Enjoy the little crumbs that we got <3.

The Way of Kings

None

Words of Radiance

None

Oathbringer:

Chapter 37 - Rock PoV

“Don’t deny it, Rock. Lopen is … well Lopen. And you’re obviously… um… you. But I’m still the strange one.”

Lunamor slapped dough onto a rock, then pointed toward where Rlain -the Parshendi bridgeman they used to call Shen- sat on a rock near his squad, watching quietly as the others laughed at Eth having accidentally stuck a stone to his hand. He wore warform, and so was taller and stronger than he had been before-but the humans seemed to have completely forgotten that he was there.

“Oh”, Renarin said. “I don’t know if he counts.”

“This thing is what everyone always tells him” Lunamor said “Over and over again.”

Renarin stared for a long time while Lunamor continued to make bread. Finally, Renarin stood up and dusted off his uniform, walked across the stone plateau, and settled down beside Rlain. Renarin fidgeted and didn’t say anything, but Rlain seemed to appreciate the company anyway.

Chapter 55 - Rlain PoV:

Rlain sipped his drink and wished Renarin were here; the quiet lighteyed man usually made a point of speaking with Rlain. The others jabbered excitedly, but didn’t think to include him. Parshmen were invisible to them-they’d been brought up that way.

And yet, he loved them because they did try.

“So…” Skar said. “Are we going to talk about Renarin?”

The twenty-eight men shared looks, many settling down around the barrel of Rock’s drink as they once had around the cookfire. There were certainly a suspicious number of buckets to use as stools, as if Rock had planned for this, The Horneater himself leaned against the table he’d brought out for holding cups, a cleaning rag thrown over his shoulder.

“What about him?” Kaladin asked, frowning and looking around at the group.

(They proceed to complain that reading is feminine with one of the most stellar quotes of Lopen: “Drehy likes other guys. That’s like … he wants to be even less around women than the rest of us. It’s the opposite of feminine. He is, you could say, extra manly”)

Kaladin rubbed his forehead, and Rlain empathized.

He felt embarrassed for them-they were simply too concerned about what a person should and shouldn’t be doing. It was because they didn’t have forms to change into. If Renarin wanted to be a scholar, let him be a scholar

“I’m sorry” Kaladin said, holding out his hand to calm the men “I wasn’t trying to insult Drehy. But storms, men. We know that things are changing. Look at the lot of us. We’re half-way to being lighteyes! We’ve already let five women into Bridge Four, and the’ll be fighting with spears. Expectations are being upended-and we’re the cause of it. So let’s give Renarin a little leeway, shall we?”

Rlain nodded. Kaladin was a good man.

Rhythm of War

Chapter 54 - Renarin PoV

We need more, Glys said. We need more like us, who will be. Who?

I can think of one, Renarin said, who would be a perfect choice…

Chapter 79 - Rlain PoV (Honorable Mention)

No, Venli is here, he thought. There were two of them. He’d never particularly liked Venli, but at least he wasn’t the sole listener. It made him wonder. Should they… try to rebuild? The idea nauseated him for multiple reasons. For one, the times he’d tried mateform himself, things hadn’t gone the way he -or anyone really- had expected.

Chapter 111 - Rlain PoV

Keep fighting, a voice said in his head. Salvation will be, Rlain, listener. Bridger of Minds. I have been sent to you by my mother, at the request of Renarin, Son of Thorns. I have watched you and seen your worthiness.

Chapter 114 - Rlain PoV

Renarin knows? Rlain thought

He suggested you, Tumi said. And told our mother about you. He was right. Our bond will be strong, and you will be wondrous. We are awed by you, Rlain. The Bridger of Minds. We are honored.

Rlain had established that he needed to stay, at least until Renarin returned.

#rlain #renarin kholin #rlainarin #stormlight archive #oathbringer #rhythm of war #my post

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evanesdust · 1 year

Text

and you are the only one, my everything

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Additional Tags: POV Alternating, Alternate Universe - College/University, Mutual Pining, Minor Stiles Stilinski/Original Male Character(s), First Kiss, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Jock Derek Hale, Possessive Behavior, Jealous Derek Hale, what happens at midnight

summary:

Stiles is gay and in love with his best friend, Derek. Derek is straight. He thought Stiles was, too, but then he walks in on Stiles with a guy and—holy shit!—maybe he's not so straight after all.

October

Stiles gasps. It's like a bucket of ice water is dumped over his head, and his whole body freezes as he stares at Derek over Zac's shoulder.

Oh shit.

Of all the times he thought about how he would come out to Derek, having Derek walk in on him getting fucked in the bathroom at a Halloween party definitely wasn't one of them.

When Zac moans, Derek's eyes flash crimson, and his expression hardens.

Stiles's surroundings come into focus without the fog of lust clouding his brain. The sink faucet digs into his back, and he pushes Zac away, his fingers tingling and palms growing warm as he uses his Spark for a little extra boost. He feels bad when Zac stumbles, almost falling to his ass since his pants are around his ankles.

"What the fuck!" Zac exclaims, his blue eyes turning beta gold for the briefest moment. But then Zac must catch Derek's reflection in the mirror because his eyes go wide, and he bares his neck in submission.

Derek finally moves. He turns suddenly and is gone in a flash, like the Road Runner from Looney Tunes—complete with a dust cloud in his wake. Stiles swears there are burn marks on the carpet.

"Fuck. Shit." Stiles scrambles to pull his jeans up, almost tripping in his haste to follow. "Derek, wait!"

Zac yells after him, but Stiles will have to apologize later. He has to find Derek and explain. He has to make sure this doesn't change things between them because Derek's been his best friend for almost his entire life.

They met in elementary school. Stiles was five when the Hale family moved in next door. Their parents thought Stiles and Cora Hale would be instant friends since they were the same age, but it was her eight-year-old brother that Stiles was drawn to.

Stiles took to Derek immediately, following him everywhere like a lost puppy. Which was hilarious, considering Derek enjoyed running around outside, and Stiles abhorred the sun and sweat in general. But before long, they were inseparable. Pretty soon, they were having weekly sleepovers and walking to and from school together. The rest kind of fell into place.

Derek helping him with homework.

Tormenting Laura and Cora.

Traipsing through the preserve and sharing anything and everything they could think of.

They were best friends.

"Are," Stiles mutters, curling in on himself as he pushes through the party. Whether it’s the expression on his face or his Spark casting a protective aura around him, everyone seems to give him a wide berth.

His name is called out a couple of times, and at first, he worries it’s Zac chasing after him, but he doesn’t stop to check. Not when he can’t get the look on Derek’s face out of his head.

There was definitely shock, but it was mixed with something else.

Was it disgust?

The frigid October air slaps him in the face as he barrels through the front door, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks briskly through the crowded streets. Laughter and music spill from every frat house he passes as he heads downtown toward their apartment. People hang off each other, singing off-key to whatever music they hear. Some are in costumes, while others are fully shifted into foxes, wolves, and other supernatural creatures.

Stiles is pretty sure there was a wererabbit at the party.

Sigh. The party.

Stiles had been having fun earlier. He didn't have a care in the world as he drank and danced. That's the only reason he let Zac drag him out of the living room into the bathroom. It was stupid, though. Not only because, of course, Derek would go looking for him but because Zac was Derek's teammate. Stiles hopes this doesn't make things awkward during football practice or games.

“Incoming!” someone yells, and Stiles barely has a chance to throw his hands up to catch the person stumbling into him. Even without a supernatural sniffer, the scent of booze permeates his senses.

The person gives him a lopsided grin and slurred, “Thanks, man!” before wobbling back to his group of friends. He turns back to Stiles and points. “That guy is awesome!”

Stiles would laugh, but how can anyone be happy when his heart feels as if it's about to explode?

Their apartment is only a ten-minute walk from the frat house, it's the longest ten minutes of Stiles's life as he glares at everyone having fun. This is worse than when he came out to his dad this past summer. Then again, he only came out because his dad caught him coming out of Jungle, the local gay club.

Stiles could have written it off and placed all the blame on Jackson. It wasn't far from the truth. They'd only been there because Jackson dragged him along to spy on Danny, but he couldn't throw his friend under the bus. So he clasped his hands together and said, 'Well, dad, there's a conversation that we—'

But his dad cut him off, stating, 'You're not gay,' with such finality that the contents of Stiles's stomach threatened to spill.

What if Derek has the same reaction?

No.

No, Stiles isn't ready for Derek to know yet. He wants more time—needs more time—especially after his dad's initial reaction.

Stiles and Derek have always been closer than most, never hesitating to cuddle or share a bed. But what if this changes things? What if Derek pushes him away?

What if Derek hates him?

Stiles isn't sure he can handle that.

Not when Derek's his whole world. His safe space and happy place. Derek's been for Stiles, standing by him—with him—through all the good times and comforting him through the bad.

He was there when Stiles won the science fair three years in a row.

When Stiles got his driver's license.

When Stiles finally made the lacrosse team.

When Stiles's mom died.

When Stiles's dad damn near drank himself to death.

Derek was the one who helped Stiles build the Collector's Series Millenium Falcon Lego set his dad paid an obscene amount of money for.

The one who read both The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings to Stiles when he was younger.

The one who watched every single Star Wars film with him, tossing popcorn back like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

It's no wonder Stiles is in love with him.

Stiles lets out a humorless laugh, the little puff of breath warming his face. His feelings for Derek aren't something he consciously thinks about, considering nothing will ever come of it.

"Tale as old as time." The classic story of a gay guy falling for his straight best friend.

By the time Stiles gets to his building, he's sure he's either going to throw up or shit himself. Maybe both at the same time because why not? It'd be the perfect way to cap off the night.

As he rides the elevator to his floor, it's tempting to mask his scent, knowing he smells like Zac and sex—and probably anxiety, sadness, and longing. But the few times he's done it, Derek's gotten all rawr, and 'Don't do that!' as if it's a personal affront not to be able to smell his mood.

Besides, since Stiles figured out all the fun he could have with his dick, he's been told on more than one occasion that he smells perpetually horny.

Plus, Derek already saw him with Zac, so it's a moot point.

The elevator dings, its doors whooshing open as if they're delivering him to his doom.

Wow, dramatic much? Stiles rolls his eyes, annoyed with himself. But his fingers shake as he tries to insert his key into the lock once, twice, three times before it finally slips in. He pushes the door open, hating how his heart lodges in his throat and the way his stomach plummets as if he were on a roller coaster.

With the exception of the soft snick of the door closing behind him, everything's quiet when Stiles enters. He takes a second to compose himself, hanging his keys on the hook and flicking his wrist to lock the door.

At first, Stiles doesn't see Derek anywhere. The lights in the living room are on, but the rest of the apartment is dark. There's no sound down the hall from their rooms, and Derek's door is wide open with the light off. Part of him is relieved; the part that says ignoring his problems until they go away is the best idea in the history of ideas. But mostly, he panics.

Did Derek even come home? And if he didn't, why? Where did he go?

Most importantly, would he come back?

But then he sees movement in the kitchen—a shadow, shifting in the dark. Stiles would recognize that shadow anywhere from all the nights Derek would climb through his bedroom window.

"Hey," Stiles says, turning on the lights with a wave of his hand.

Derek leans against the counter with his ankles crossed, staring at the ground, all casual-like, as if he doesn't have a care in the world. But Stiles can see the tension in his shoulders. Can see the tiny twitches of his fingers that hang loosely at his sides.

And then Derek lifts his head, meeting Stiles's gaze.

Stiles can't read the expression on his face, which is disconcerting. He's always been able to tell what Derek's thinking with just one glance or quirk of an eyebrow.

It's unnerving, unsettling, and every other word for troubling that Derek's so quiet. It might be expected if there was anyone other than Stiles present, but with him, Derek's actually very talkative. You just have to earn his words.

Did Stiles lose that?

He steps closer, the floor creaking under his feet. Derek tracks his steps, but the silence is deafening. His expression changes, though. Derek watches him as if Stiles were a scared animal just waiting for an opportunity to bolt. It doesn't make any sense because, between them, Stiles is ready for Derek to run.

It makes Stiles antsy, so he starts fidgeting—first, picking at his nails, then shifting his weight from foot to foot while scratching his jaw in a nervous tic. When he starts pacing, Derek grabs him, gently pulling him to a stop. They stare at each other for a moment before Stiles glances away, tugging at the strings of his hoodie.

Derek covers his hands, then guides him to the living room and sits on the couch, manhandling Stiles to his lap.

"You have personal space issues," Stiles says, finally breaking the silence. When Derek still doesn't say anything, he lets out a nervous laugh. Sitting on Derek's lap is too awkward, so he tries to get up but accidentally elbows Derek in the stomach.

Derek grunts. "For Christ's sake, it's like holding a hostile little puppet."

"Oh my God, you're only like an inch taller than me." Stiles can't help but roll his eyes. Part of him still wants to get up. He's scared of Derek pushing him away, except Derek's not. So instead, he maneuvers himself to laying between Derek's legs on the couch—his back to Derek's chest. It's not the first time they've laid this way. He just hopes it won't be the last. "Is this better, you behemoth?"

Derek huffs a laugh and rubs his cheek against the side of Stiles's head. "It's always better with you here."

Stiles's heart trips over itself. That's a good thing, right? It has to be. Except, Derek's words are followed by more silence, and Stiles can't take it anymore. Usually, he's the first person to ignore his problems until they go away. But this is Derek. So, in a small voice that comes out shakier than he'd like, he asks, "Are…are we okay?"

"Why wouldn't we be okay?" Derek's voice is a little strangled.

Stiles shrugs, trying for nonchalance, but really it feels like there's a fist clenched around his heart. He knows the devastating loss of a loved one, but he's not sure he'd survive losing Derek.

Still, he swallows down the lump in his throat. "Because of what you saw."

It's a few tense seconds before Derek answers. "Is that why you didn't tell me? Because you thought I'd…I don't know, stop being friends with you or something?"

Stiles shrugs again, his heart damn near beating out of his chest. "I mean, it happens, right? Friendships end, parents disown their children…"

Derek's arms tighten around him. "Did something happen with your dad?"

"No. Not really. I mean, he caught me out at Jungle this summer and made a stupid comment, but then we talked later."

His dad gave him a patented Stilinski hug, apologizing for his initial reaction, and told him that he loved him. He, like everyone else, assumed Stiles was straight. Which was fair considering Stiles's legendary crush on Lydia Martin.

'Does Derek know?' his dad asked when Stiles finally pulled away.

Stiles's silence was enough for his dad to scrub a hand down his face. Somehow, Stiles knew his dad was wondering how he never saw it before. 'You love him, don't you?'

The silence that followed hung heavy in the air. 'Kiddo…you should tell him.'

'But what if—'

Before Stiles could finish his thought, his dad pulled him into another hug. 'Your friendship with Derek is special. He might not feel the same, but he'll always be your friend.'

Yeah. Friend.

Derek trails his fingers over Stiles's arm with a feather-like touch, drawing his attention. "You're my best friend, Stiles. You know me. I'm always going to be here for you. I love you. It doesn't matter who you love, as long as you're happy. Well, unless they're a dick. You're the best person I've ever known, so they have to deserve you."

Stiles closes his eyes to stave off the impending tears.

Derek still loves him and isn't horrified by him. Stiles should've trusted him. He should have known that Derek wouldn't push him away. Not Derek, who's always had his back.

Who growled at Jackson for stealing Stiles's crayons, even though Stiles broke Jackson's first.

Who tackled Theo for making fun of Stiles wearing Derek's football jersey at school.

Who never cared about the looks they got whenever they held hands or cuddled, or when Stiles would plaster himself to Derek's back like a koala.

Fuck, the past few years probably would've been a hell of a lot less stressful if he'd just told Derek.

"I love you too," Stiles says quietly. Though, he can't help but wonder how Derek would feel if he knew Stiles was in love with him.

"I hate that you've struggled alone with this. You could have confided in me. I would've told you that there was nothing wrong with being gay or bi or pan or—"

"Gay," Stiles interrupts. "I-I'm gay."

Derek presses a kiss to the side of his head before nosing the side of his neck. Derek's always loved his scent, saying it helped calm him. "I will always love and support you, Stiles. No matter what."

Stiles nods as he finally relaxes into Derek's arms, his traitorous heart skipping a beat. Emotions are so confusing sometimes with how he can feel two opposite things at the same time. How he can understand something but still be broken by it.

Derek loves him, but he's also straight, so Stiles knows that Derek will never be in love with him.

November

The late November air is crisp, fall finally making itself known, but sweat trickles down Derek's temples as he runs down the field. Even as he tracks the ball flying toward him, dodging Jackson and Boyd as they try to tackle him, all he can think about is telling Stiles his good news.

The whistle blows, and Derek realizes he missed the catch.

"Hale! Get your ass in here!" Coach Finstock yells.

Derek hangs his head low as he jogs to the sidelines, chastising himself for not paying attention. "Sorry, coach."

Finstock blows his whistle again as soon as Derek's close. "Don't 'sorry, coach' me, Hale."

Derek's pretty sure Finstock would yank him closer by the ear if he wasn't wearing a helmet. "Yes, sir."

"You know...part of me wants to ask," Finstock says, crossing his arms. "The other part says knowing will be more disturbing than anything I could ever imagine."

His eyes flit over to the bleachers, and Derek clenches his jaw, knowing exactly what he’s looking at. Or rather, who he’s looking at, to be more accurate.

"Coach, I—" Derek begins, but Finstock interrupts.

"There are three rules that I live by: never get less than twelve hours sleep; never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city; and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Now you stick to that, and everything else is cream cheese."

"Uh...yes, sir? That seems like very good advice." Derek tries not to think about it too hard. Honestly, Finstock never really makes sense.

"Eh, what am I saying? It doesn't matter how you play the game, it's whether you win or lose. And even that doesn't make all that much difference." Finstock blows the whistle again, making Derek cringe. "Now get outta here, Hale."

In lieu of heading to the locker room, Derek runs up the bleachers to where Stiles sits. Where Stiles always sits when Derek has practice. It makes him insanely happy to have Stiles here, even if Stiles usually has his head in a book, either studying or doing homework.

Once he's in front of Stiles, Derek takes off his helmet and shakes his sweaty head over Stiles, making him curse.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Stiles asks, his eyes narrowed in a death glare.

God, he's so adorable sometimes. All the time, really.

Derek should probably be scared, considering the things Stiles can do thanks to his Spark, but Stiles would never hurt him. At least not intentionally. There was that one time when Stiles accidentally hurled a lamp at his head, but in his defense, Derek had startled him.

"Yeah," Derek says, beaming down at him. He sets his helmet down and plucks the book from Stiles's hands. As he skims the back cover, he says, "I got some good news and wanted to share with someone special…but you'll do."

Stiles flips him off, standing up to swipe the book back.

Derek holds it over his head, reading the title: Bite me! (You know I like it) by Fae Quin. "Huh. Sounds kinky."

"Give it back," Stiles demands, his pretty pink lips drawn in a tight line.

Derek grins, leaning down and whispering in Stiles's ear. "Ask me nicely."

He doesn't miss the full-body shudder or the way Stiles's scent turns spicy. But he ignores it because he was taught that it's impolite to point these things out. Just because he's a werewolf doesn't give him the right to use his enhanced abilities to essentially invade someone's privacy.

Plus, it's Stiles. He almost always smells aroused.

So, being the good friend he is, Derek hands the book back.

"You're such a dick. Why am I friends with you again?" Stiles asks, setting the book down on the bleachers.

Derek snorts. "You're the one who ran up to me and declared us best friends."

"I was five." Stiles rolls his eyes, but the corner of his lip quirks like he's fighting a smile. "I didn't know any better."

"You wound me," Derek deadpans.

Finally, Stiles smiles and, God, it's the most beautiful thing. It lights up his entire face and makes his eyes sparkle. "Alright, alright. Now, what's this good news you were talking about?"

"I talked to Professor Deucalion. I got an A on my exam!"

Derek nearly stumbles back when Stiles leaps into his arms, but he manages to catch him with one arm.

"That's fucking amazing! I knew you could do it!"

The air around them warms as Stiles's Spark radiates his happiness. It's almost like spring with the sun shining down on them, making everything a little brighter. He spins Stiles around in a circle, probably looking ridiculous with Stiles doing a little cheer, but then someone calls out, "Get a room!" and just like that, Derek's good mood disappears.

He hadn’t even realized Coach called an end to practice.

Derek puts Stiles down and clears his throat, taking a step back. It's not the first time the guys have given him shit about Stiles. They affectionately call Stiles his boyfriend, which Derek never bothers to correct because who gives a shit? But the past few weeks have been awkward as fuck.

His mind is a jumbled mess, filled with confusion because he's never even looked at a guy before, but now his mind is all Stiles Stiles Stiles.

Stiles blushes, and usually, it's something Derek loves, but now all it does is remind him of seeing Stiles all flushed, mouth dropped open in apparent ecstasy as Zac pounded into him. Fucking Zac. Derek grimaces because he's never had a problem with the guy before, but now all he wants to do is punch something whenever he sees him.

It's a good thing they're on the same line; otherwise, Derek's not sure he could stop himself from tackling Zac just a little too hard during practice.

Stiles sighs, then reaches down for his bag, shoving his things inside.

Derek frowns. "Where are you going?" He's still got to shower, so Stiles has a few minutes before they need to go.

"I, uh, I forgot I have a tutoring session to get to."

Even without using his supernatural hearing, Derek knows that's a lie. "But I thought we'd head home. I've had a pork roast slow cooking all day. It should be done by the time we get there."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Just save me a plate or something."

"Seriously?" Derek crosses his arms, frowning down at Stiles. They always have dinner together. "But I want to know more about your book. It looks interesting."

Stiles raises a brow, the book clutched close to his chest as he adjusts his bag over his shoulder. "It's about a guy who finds out about supernatural creatures and falls in love with this guy who turns out to be a vampire."

"Tell me more." Derek's proud of the way Stiles has been more open lately. It's like a weight was lifted off his shoulders, though Derek hates that he never noticed it before. Still, sometimes it feels like Stiles is still hiding something. He can't really begrudge him of that, considering he's been hiding some things as well. Like the fact that he can't seem to stop replaying the night he walked in on Stiles with Zac. Except, instead of Zac pounding into Stiles, it's Derek pounding into him.

"You want me to tell you about the gay vampire romance I'm reading?"

Derek crosses his arms over his chest, one brow raised at the disbelief in Stiles's voice. "Yup. Laura made me read Twilight so why not?"

Stiles stares at him for what feels like forever before hitching his bag higher on his shoulder and glancing away. "Maybe later."

As much as Derek doesn't want to, he lets Stiles pass without calling him out.

It's late. Derek and Stiles spent the day in Beacon Hills for Thanksgiving, but now Derek's ready to go home. He's incredibly horny and needs the privacy of his room to rub one out.

Somehow, Stiles made something as innocent as drinking from a bottle look downright pornographic. Inappropriate thoughts about Stiles's lips wrapped around his cock led to some uncomfortable stares in Derek's direction.

While he's grateful they're at least out of his parent's house, they're still not heading home because Stiles wants to stay the night at his dad's—going so far as to tell Derek he could go ahead and drive home after dropping him off.

"Well, when are you planning on coming home?" Derek has practice on Saturday, so he needs to be back in time for that.

"Tomorrow."

Derek sighs. It's only a three-hour trip, so it really wouldn't be that bad to come back and pick Stiles up tomorrow. Of course, he could also just stay the night with Stiles.

"Then I'll stay too."

"What? No, why?"

Derek turns his head, raising a brow at Stiles. "Well, how else are you getting home?"

"I'll just catch a ride with Jackson. He's going back tomorrow too."

Fuck. That.

As soon as he pulls up in front of the Sheriff's house, Stiles is out of the Camaro, calling out a goodbye before Derek even shuts it off.

When the engine cuts out and Derek opens his door, Stiles glances back at him. "Uh...what are you doing?"

"I told you I was staying too." The duh is implied. Derek rounds the hood but then stops when he realizes— "Unless you don't want me to."

What if that's it? What if Stiles really doesn't want him to stay?

Derek's fine with that. Of course, he is. They're close, maybe a little codependent, but if Stiles wants space, then Derek will give it to him.

"Shit." Derek rubs a hand down his face and turns to get back in the car. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assu—"

"Stay."

Just that one word makes him sigh in relief.

"Are you sure?"

Stiles rolls his eyes and stomps over, taking Derek's hand and dragging him inside. "Don't be stupid. I always want you here."

Derek grins as he follows.

When they get to Stiles's room, Stiles lets go of his hand and Derek immediately misses the warmth.

"I'm just gonna take a quick shower," Stiles says, grabbing some clothes before stalking off to the bathroom.

The shower starts and Derek kicks off his shoes, takes off his jacket, and undresses down to his boxer briefs before lying back in Stiles's bed. It's only a twin size, so it's a bit small for two full-grown adults, but they'll make do. It wouldn't be the first time they've cuddled in bed.

He tucks one arm behind his head while the other rests on his stomach, staring at the faded stars on Stiles's ceiling. The memory of them sticking the glow-in-the-dark stars up there makes him smile. Stiles was ten and Derek had just celebrated his thirteenth birthday. Because of their age difference and Derek's werewolf genetics, he was significantly taller than Stiles. So instead of using a ladder, Derek hoisted Stiles to his shoulders. He held Stiles's legs as Stiles painstakingly placed each star exactly where he wanted.

A muffled groan from the bathroom draws his attention, and Derek sits up, ready to charge through the door in case Stiles is hurt or something. But then that groan turns into a familiar whimper, and Derek's cock jumps in his boxer briefs. He knows that sound after living together for months.

Stiles is jerking off.

It's never affected him before, not really. But now all he can see is Stiles's head thrown back, his face flushed, and eyes glazed over with lust.

The porn Derek watches doesn't even get him worked up like this. And it's not even listening to Stiles's soft, strangled groans or the sound of skin-on-skin as he strokes himself that does it. It's the fact that it's Stiles.

And yes, Derek's been watching a lot of porn lately, trying to figure out if his confusion is about guys in general or just Stiles.

He felt ridiculous at first. Porn never really did anything for him before, and gay porn was the same. That is until a guy popped up on the screen that kind of looked like Stiles with his messy hair and mole-speckled skin. Then it was an instant boner as his cock took notice.

Not even his past girlfriends turned him on as much as watching the Stiles look-a-like cry out in pleasure. But sex had never been that important to him. In fact, the only people he'd ever been attracted to in that way were Paige and Jennifer.

He'd dated Paige in high school; she was his longest relationship. It was…fine. She was pretty and snarky and didn't put up with Derek's bullshit. She reminded him a lot of Stiles, actually.

Then there was Jennifer. He met her during his first year at university. Their relationship fizzled rather quickly, but there had been something about her that drew him in. Maybe it was how expressive she was when she talked, her hands always moving, telling their own story.

Shit.

Kind of like Stiles.

Now that he's thinking about it, both Paige and Jennifer were basically female versions of Stiles—at least in looks and mannerisms.

His family often joked that he had a type.

Hell, even a few hookups looked like Stiles. And then after, Derek always went home and cuddled with Stiles.

Fuck.

Derek lets out a strangled laugh as his mind spins and things click into place.

Stiles. It always comes back to Stiles.

Even the guys on the team even give him shit about their relationship. Over the past three years, Derek always went home whenever he could just to see Stiles. And now they live together. Derek never even asked Stiles if that's what he wanted. Maybe Stiles had wanted to live in the dorms with the other freshmen. Instead, Derek had gotten an apartment just for them, no questions asked.

It probably isn't healthy to be joined at the hip, but Derek doesn't care. He loves Stiles, loves being around him. And it's not like they don't or can't spend time apart. There were the three years when Stiles was still in high school and Derek was at university. And with football, sometimes Derek's away games are overnight stays, leaving Stiles at the apartment alone.

Sometimes, Stiles hangs out with the people he's met since school started while Derek stays home.

Sometimes, Derek's out with Boyd or Isaac while Stiles stays home.

Sometimes, they take separate trips to Beacon Hills because—contrary to popular belief—they can function without the other.

But mostly, they prefer to hang out together, and there's nothing wrong with that.

Right?

And, sure, they're more touchy-feely than anyone Derek's ever seen. It's not something he'd paid attention to before. But now Derek notices how often they cuddle. He notices that whenever Stiles is near, he has to touch him in some way—usually pressing up against him or placing a hand on the small of his back.

That's definitely not something most friends do, not even close ones.

They eat dinner together, clean up after each other, and are all around very…domestic.

Holy shit. Derek's basically in a relationship with Stiles.

The only thing missing is sex.

As if on cue, a soft moan comes from the bathroom, and Derek rubs his cock. He can't help but wonder who Stiles is thinking about. His dick goes soft because what if Stiles is thinking of Zac? Of that night in the bathroom and whatever other nights they were able to sneak away.

Was that the first night they hooked up?

Are they dating? Is it a friends-with-benefits thing?

Derek drags a hand down his face. He really is a horrible friend for not asking Stiles more about this. For essentially ignoring everything after they talked that night. But it was clear the conversation made Stiles uncomfortable. Hell, Derek was kind of uncomfortable, too, because the idea of someone else's hands on Stiles made him sick.

It should have been him with Stiles, not Zac. Stiles is his.

Oh.

Holy shit, he's attracted to Stiles. But, more than that, he's pretty sure he's in love with him.

Looking back on it, Derek feels like an idiot. Of course, he's in love with Stiles. It's so simple but also scary because what if Stiles doesn't feel the same way?

Just because Stiles is gay doesn't mean he's attracted to Derek. Especially if Zac's his type, with his dirty blond hair and pale blue eyes.

He's also short.

Okay, maybe not that short. Like Stiles, Zac's probably only an inch or two shorter than Derek. He's just being salty now.

No. Actually, that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach is dread. Derek’s scared.

There’s a lot that he can handle, but the idea of Stiles rejecting him? He’s not sure he could take it. His future has always involved Stiles, and this could change things.

It might not change the bond they have, but it could make their relationship awkward. More awkward than it already is.

Part of him wishes he could go back to before he found out Stiles was gay. After all, isn't the healthiest way to deal with uncertainty and confusion to squash it deep down and pretend it doesn't exist?

Christ. Derek definitely spends too much time with Stiles if his first idea is to run away from his problems.

Derek's thoughts are interrupted when the shower cuts off.

Stiles comes back into the room a few minutes later, stilling when he notices that Derek's still awake. His hair is damp, standing in spikes from running a towel over it. There's a flush to his skin that could be from his orgasm or the hot shower.

It's awkward for a moment. Stiles is probably wondering if Derek could hear him, but then Stiles crosses the room and slides into bed. He faces the doorway, and that just won't do, so Derek loops an arm around his stomach and drags Stiles back against him.

"I'm not a toy you can manhandle, you know," Stiles says, though Derek can hear the smile in his voice.

Instead of answering, Derek closes his eyes and drags his nose along the back of Stiles's neck. He smells like Irish Spring, but there's also the lingering scent of his arousal.

Derek lets out a pleased rumble-purr and buries his face in the crook of Stiles's neck as he wraps himself around Stiles like a protective blanket.

No matter what, at least he has this.

December

Stiles tosses his keys on the kitchen counter and roots through the pantry, looking for something to eat. His last class ran a little late, and he's starving. It's his day to cook, but he needs something now, or else he'll be on the warpath, and it's better for everyone if he isn't hangry.

His phone chimes with an incoming text—Zac reminding him of a party his frat is hosting.

Stiles chews on his bottom lip as he debates whether to go or not. It'd be nice to hang out with some friends before the holiday break and let loose from all the stress of finals.

But a quiet night in with Derek is almost always preferable.

As if on cue, Derek steps into the kitchen. His hair is wet, and the towel slung low on his hips leaves little to the imagination as far as his assets go.

Stiles swallows thickly as he stares at Derek's drool-worthy naked chest.

Fuck. Do not pop a boner. Do not pop a boner.

It's seriously so unfair that Derek's so fucking hot. And straight. And far too damn comfortable with Stiles that he gives zero fucks about walking around half-naked.

All. The. Time.

Doesn't he realize that he's a walking wet dream? Stiles's, to be specific. Doesn't he realize that he's the star in every single one of Stiles's very vivid fantasies?

Probably not, because Derek's one of the most humble guys Stiles knows. He might know he's attractive, but he doesn't realize the sheer power of his smile. It brings out his dimples, and Stiles would commit murder for them.

Also, his abs. Rock-hard, solid muscle that Stiles wants to lick.

Stiles does his best not to perve on Derek, though. But he's not a saint and—fuck—Stiles can't help but wonder what it would feel like to rub himself against Derek's body. It's bad enough that he knows how it feels to have Derek wrapped around him like a blanket.

"Who's that?" Derek asks, walking behind him to grab an apple from the counter. He takes a big bite; the crunch is loud in the quiet apartment.

"Oh, uh, it's Zac. There's a party at the frat, so he was wondering if I was gonna go."

"And are you?"

Stiles shrugs, ignoring the hard edge of Derek's voice. It gets like that whenever Zac is mentioned lately. "I don't know. Maybe. You wanna come with?"

"Why don't we stay in and watch a movie?"

Stiles wants to retort, 'Why don't you put on a shirt?' but he manages to bite it back. It would raise unnecessary questions that Stiles absolutely does not want to answer.

"You're hungry, right? We can order in," Derek continues.

"I don't know. We're gonna be leaving for break soon. Might be fun to hit up one last party." Stiles opens the fridge and leans in, letting the frigid temperature cool him down. Seriously, are their towels shrinking? And does Derek have to tie it so low on his hips?

All it would take is for Stiles to flick his wrist or snap his fingers and that towel is gone.

It's so unfair.

Especially because now he's horny.

"Actually, you know what?" Stiles slams the fridge shut and stands up straight but then startles because—holy shit!—when did Derek get that close? "Jesus-fucking-Christ, Derek! I'm buying you a damn bell for Christmas!"

Derek's breath ghosts over his skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

Fuck.

Stiles shivers. His cock twitches and his hole clenches, wanting to be filled.

"What were you going to say?" Derek's voice is a lot huskier than it usually is.

Or maybe it's wishful thinking on his part.

Yeah, Stiles definitely needs to get laid.

"I-I," Stiles clears his throat and steps to the side, putting some distance between them. He hates that he's probably blushing if the heat creeping up his neck to his cheeks is anything to go by. "I think I'm gonna go to the party. Y-Yeah. I-I'm gonna do…that. The party."

Derek raises a brow and fuck if that doesn't infuriate and turn him on. The bastard.

"Alright. Just give me a few to get ready."

Wait. What?

"What?"

Derek leans close, making Stiles gasp because it almost seems like Derek's going to kiss him or something, but then Derek reaches past him to toss the apple core into the trash. "I said just give me a few minutes to get dressed, and then we can go."

"You're…coming with me?"

Derek crosses his arms over his broad chest, making his pecs pop out. He asks something, but Stiles doesn't hear it. In fact, he's two-point-five seconds away from dropping to his knees and embarrassing himself.

"Stiles?"

He blinks at Derek in confusion. "Huh, what?"

"I asked if that was okay."

"O…kay?" Stiles asks, because what were they talking about again?

Derek huffs in amusement and grips Stiles's arms, ensuring Stiles looks him right in the eyes. "Is it alright if I come to the party with you?"

An unreadable expression crosses Derek's face at that moment as if he's just realized something. He lets go of Stiles and takes a step back. "I mean, if you don't want me to, it's fine." Then his voice goes quiet, almost vulnerable. "You're probably meeting up with…him. It's...okay. You know you don't have to hide that from me, right?"

What?

Derek wants to talk to him about…guys?

"That wouldn't make you uncomfortable?"

"I mean, I know we don't usually talk about that stuff, but you can. It doesn't have to be…awkward."

Uh, yes. Yes, it would be extremely awkward. So thank God that it's not something they've ever really talked about before because while, yes, Stiles knows that Derek has dated and hooked up with girls, he'd rather live in ignorant bliss.

A sour expression crosses Derek's face, like he just bit into a grapefruit, so Stiles puts him out of his misery.

"Er, I'd rather not talk about that. With you. You're my best friend, but maybe some things…"

"Right. Okay." Derek looks one part relieved but also disappointed. "And, actually, you know what? Forget about the party. I shouldn't have asked."

Crap.

Sure, hooking up with Zac was one of the reasons Stiles had considered going to the party, but Stiles would be damned if he ever made Derek feel like he wasn't wanted. Bros before…other bros that might potentially suck your dick and all that, right?

Before Derek can take another step back, Stiles grabs his arm. "I'm just gonna take a quick shower first, alright? Just gimme fifteen minutes."

Derek gives him a smile so small that Stiles has to squint to see it. Still, it's breathtaking.

"Knowing you, it'll be more like thirty," Derek says.

And just like that, the tension's gone.

"Oh, fuck you, dude."

They're out the door forty minutes later, finally heading to the party. Stiles is surprised that Derek doesn't give him shit for it, but Derek's hands are shoved in his pockets, and there's a sour expression on his face.

Stiles wants to call him out on his crappy mood and how he doesn't have to go to the party, but Derek's a big boy. In fact, he'd insisted, so instead of letting Derek's mood bring him down, Stiles skips ahead of him. He turns to Derek with a smile plastered on his face. "Did you know that every C in Pacific Ocean is pronounced differently?"

Derek huffs out an annoyed breath. Even with a scowl, he's beautiful.

Stiles hates how weird things have been between them lately. They still cuddle and stuff, but Derek's been more growly and possessive.

Don't get him wrong, Stiles likes it. But at the same time, he knows this is just how Derek is. Though, this is maybe a bit more…extreme than usual.

Still, it's not as if Derek actually wants him or anything. Derek's straight, after all.

But.

Then there are moments like earlier in the kitchen. Or times when he catches Derek watching him a little more intently, and Stiles can't help but wonder.

What if?

What if Derek felt the same?

Stiles shivers, and it's not from the cold. The idea of Derek wanting him is ridiculous, but still. Being the first man Derek ever touched and tasted—the first man Derek ever fucked—sends a jolt of arousal through his veins.

Warmth envelops him as Derek wraps his leather jacket around his shoulders. Stiles would protest that he's not cold, but then he'd have to give Derek's jacket back. Right now, if he closes his eyes, maybe he can pretend that things are different between them.

Besides, with how close they are—Derek's arm slung around his waist, so Stiles is pressed against him—they could be mistaken for a couple. It's happened before.

They get to the frat house, and at first, Derek doesn't let him go. Stiles blushes as people glance at them, but it's nothing they haven't seen before. Derek's usually touching him in some way.

But then Zac calls out his name. "Stiles!"

Zac brushes the hair back from his eyes, sweeping it to the side as he eyes Derek warily. "Hey, man."

"Zac," is all Derek says before dropping his arm. But then gently grips the back of Stiles's neck, bringing him close to whisper in his ear. "I'm gonna grab a drink. You want anything?"

Stiles turns his head, swallowing thickly at how close Derek is. "I, uh, I—"

"I've got him," Zac says, holding a cup out for Stiles.

Derek grabs it, taking a sip. Stiles would protest because Derek can't possibly think that Zac would drug him or something. Still, he supposes a person can never be too careful.

Zac scowls, seemingly understanding why Derek took his drink. "I wouldn't do that."

"Then you have no problem with me checking," Derek says, a brow raised in challenge. "He's mine. My pack. And I'll protect him from anyone. Got it?"

Zac throws his hands up with a heavy sigh, but he relents.

Then Derek hands Stiles the drink, nodding that it's fine, and Zac glances at Stiles. "Wanna dance?"

"Hell yeah." Stiles chugs his drink, needing the buzz to chase away the awkwardness before shrugging off Derek's jacket. He hands it back to him and follows Zac to the living room, where music pumps through the speakers.

The main lights are off, but there are party lights, casting the room in an eerie glow of pinks, purples, and blues that swoop along the walls.

Stiles gets lost in the music, arms flailing as he bounces to the rhythmic thumping of the bass.

Zac flirts with him, dancing close, but Stiles notices Derek glaring at them from across the room. He feels guilty, like he's betraying Derek by paying attention to another guy, even though he shouldn't. It's not as if he and Derek are dating—even though he wishes they were.

He's unsure how much time passes as he drinks and dances the night away, but then Zac palms his ass and kisses him.

After a moment, Zac breaks the kiss, dragging his lips to Stiles's ear. "Stay tonight? My roommate left early, so we'll have the room to ourselves."

Before Stiles can turn him down—because as much fun as he has with Zac, it's not fair to lead him on like this—Derek's there, sliding his arms around Stiles and pulling him back against him.

Stiles laughs as he spins in Derek's arms. "I swear to God, I'm not kidding about that bell!"

"Buy me whatever you want, baby. You know I'll wear it." Derek holds up his wrist, showing Stiles the friendship bracelet he still wears. Stiles made it for Derek when he was maybe seven? Honestly, it's been so long that he doesn't even remember.

"You're a dork," Stiles says fondly. He gasps when Derek's arm snakes around his waist and practically encourages Stiles to grind against him as they move to the beat of the music.

"Is this okay?" Derek asks. For all that they do, they've never done this.

Well, except for school dances. Derek never hesitated to pull Stiles in his arms during a slow song.

But the grinding? Yeah, that's new.

It makes Stiles giddy. Or maybe it's the alcohol, but Derek's so close and smells so good.

Stiles smirks as he dusts his knuckles over Derek's stomach.

There's a hitch in Derek's breath that shouldn't be audible over the music, but at this moment, the world is narrowed to just the two of them.

Filled with a sense of false confidence, Stiles slips his hands under Derek's shirt, pressing his palms against the hard ridges of Derek's abs. Derek might only be an inch taller than Stiles, but it feels like Derek towers over him as Stiles cranes his neck to look up at him. Derek's eyes flare with…something. Stiles would say it's interest, but he refuses to read into things. Even as they breathe together.

Even as Derek leans down, dragging his nose along Stiles's jaw.

Stiles's breathing grows ragged the closer Derek's lips get to his, but then someone knocks into them. Derek lets him go in favor of helping the person get to their feet.

Instead of pulling Stiles against him again once they stumble off, Derek shoves his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. He won't meet Stiles's eyes, and by the look on his face, it's clear he regrets what they were just doing.

And just like that, the moment is broken, and the high from having such a good time is gone.

"I wanna go home," Stiles says, wrapping his arms around himself. He let himself get too lost in his head and the idea that Derek could want him, too, and now it’s as if his entire being is an open wound.

His skin prickles as he imagines everybody staring at him.

Do they know how much Stiles wants Derek? How much he wanted that kiss?

Do they see the way Derek won’t even look at him?

It’s like an anvil dropping into the pit of his stomach as his anxiety rises, making him stone-cold sober.

Without giving Derek a second glance, he shuffles past everyone on the makeshift dance floor, needing air.

He can't be here anymore.

Stiles steps out onto the porch, gulping in the cold night air. He takes a few deep breaths, trying his best to push away the lump in his throat.

After a few more shuddering breaths, the tightness in his chest slowly releases. But then Derek’s there, a familiar warmth at his back, and Stiles hates the way it simultaneously brings him misery and comforts him.

"Stiles, I—"

"No." Stiles shakes his head. He’s too tired to hear whatever excuse Derek intends to give him—that he was drunk or was too caught up in the moment. "I just want to go home and sleep."

Derek doesn't protest as he leads Stiles from the party and back to their apartment, walking close beside him, their arms brushing every so often.

Still, Stiles has never felt more lonely.

New Year's Eve

Stupid Zac.

Seriously, if Stiles and Zac were serious, then Stiles should have told Derek because having Zac show up at his parent's house for the New Year's Eve party is like a sucker punch to the gut.

Though…Stiles seems a little shocked by Zac's arrival, too.

Still, it doesn't stop Stiles from laughing and joking with him. From flirting.

On one hand, Derek's happy for Stiles. It really is a relief to know Stiles isn't hiding this part of himself anymore. On the other hand, Derek absolutely hates it. Hates that someone else is on the other end of one of Stiles's smiles.

But Derek can't look away.

Instead, he seethes with jealousy as he watches Zac and Stiles. They'd make a cute couple, even Derek can tell that they look good together.

But just last week, Derek and Stiles almost kissed.

They. Almost. Kissed.

And Derek wanted it so bad.

But then someone bumped into them, and when he looked back at Stiles, his cheeks were flushed and his pupils dilated. The scent of alcohol hung heavy in the air, and Derek couldn't be sure Stiles realized it was him he was about to kiss. Hell, Stiles had already kissed Zac just moments before.

If Derek were a better person, he'd walk away. Stiles is clearly happy, and who cares that it's not with Derek? But Derek isn't a better person, so he stays. He watches and growls every time Zac touches Stiles. Every time Stiles smiles at him.

He wants to march over, throw Stiles over his shoulder, and take him upstairs away from prying eyes. He wants to rub himself all over Stiles, mark every inch of his lithe body so everyone knows that Stiles is his.

But he doesn't.

Because Derek loves Stiles too much to turn him into a possession. So instead, he takes a deep breath and plasters a smile on his face even though his heart is breaking.

The closer it gets to midnight, though, the more aggravated he gets. The thought of watching Stiles kiss Zac becomes unbearable, so he pushes away from the wall and stalks upstairs to his room, slamming his bedroom door shut like a sullen teenager.

It knocks the contents of his wall-mounted shelf over, including the wooden wolf Stiles got him for his tenth birthday. Apparently, Stiles had seen it when he was out with his mom and had to get it for Derek. He'd begged his mom to let him use his savings since he'd already spent his entire allowance on a video game Derek had wanted.

His wide, pleading eyes must have worked because Stiles presented it to him in a little gift bag with a proud smile on his face.

Derek picks it up and examines the battered toy, a symbol of their friendship. He cradles it close, wishing it could give him some kind of answer.

There's a tap on his door, but before he has a chance to ask who it is, the door flies open and Stiles charges in like a raging bull. The air around him is damn near electrified thanks to his Spark.

With a scowl on his pretty face and his arms crossed, he just looks at Derek.

Nothing is said for the longest time, so Derek sits in his desk chair.

Then it starts. Stiles's jaw tics and his fingers twitch. He shuffles from foot to foot for a few moments before the pacing begins. There's annoyance written in every line of his long, lean body.

Even angry, Stiles is so beautiful.

Stiles opens his mouth several times, like he's about to say something but then changes his mind. It feels like forever before Stiles finally says, "What the hell is your problem?"

The words hit Derek square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him as if Stiles reeled back and hurled them at him like a weapon.

Derek squares his shoulders, but what is he supposed to say?

That his problem is he's never felt this all-consuming kind of…want for someone before?

Sure, Stiles has always been there, but never with the possibility of more, and now it's all Derek can think about. It's like once he realized that he was in love with Stiles, that was it for him. He hasn't even bothered checking out other girls—or guys, for that matter—knowing he would only ever compare them to Stiles.

And against Stiles, there is no contest.

But while Derek's been trying to figure out a way to tell his best friend that he's in love with him, Stiles has been out there, giving Zac those lazy, crooked smiles.

Those are Derek's smiles!

They're not for family or friends. And certainly not for Zac.

"Derek, I am so serious right now." Stiles stands with his hands on his hips, his head and shoulders hunched in defeat.

"I'm in love with you," Derek whispers, his voice hoarse with the strain of forcing himself to say the words.

This changes everything.

Derek stares at Stiles, waiting for him to say something and wishing he could take it back because Stiles is quiet.

Stiles is never quiet, so this can't possibly be good.

"What did you just say?" Stiles's voice comes out rough. He points an accusatory finger at Derek, getting right in his face.

Derek leans back in his chair when Stiles jabs that finger into his chest. "Ow."

But not even his lame exclamation of pain stamps down the ire in Stiles's eyes. "What…the fuck…did you just say to me?"

Derek reaches up, hating how his fingers shake as he covers Stiles's hand, moving it over his heart.

"I said," he closes his eyes, steeling himself for a moment before opening them again, "that I'm in love with you."

Stiles lets out a strangled laugh before narrowing his eyes. It's odd being on this side of Stiles's anger. "But you're straight!"

"I thought I was," Derek says quietly. "But then I saw you with Zac and I…" He never realized things could be different between them. That they could be more.

"You what? Do you feel threatened by him? Do you think you're going to lose me or something? Because I'm not going anywhere, Derek." Stiles's hard glare softens to something like understanding and he sighs. "You're my best friend and that's never going to change. You're the most important person in my life. I love you."

And somehow, Derek knows that it's not a platonic love. Not when Stiles's voice breaks, when it sounds like a plead for Derek to understand.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"And possibly lose you? No way." Stiles shakes his head as he straightens, backing away and resuming his pacing. "I'd rather be your friend than nothing at all."

He sounds beaten, despondent and dejected, as if he's finally coming to terms with something.

And that just won't do.

"But I love you!" Derek implores, standing. The chair rolls back, colliding with his desk with a hard thud. "Even before this, I have always loved you. You wouldn't have lost me."

Stiles laughs; it's a wet sound, like he's got something stuck in his throat. "It would have been different. Things would have changed. You'd have looked at me differently, knowing how I felt. I know you, Derek. You'd have done something stupid like force yourself into a relationship with me because you'd have wanted to make me happy."

"No, I wouldn't!" Derek might be willing to do anything for Stiles, but if his feelings weren't genuine, he'd never hurt Stiles by staying in a sham of a relationship. "I know how I feel about you. Sure, I might have only realized it after seeing you with Zac, but that's only because I didn't know things could be different between us! Hell, if you'd told me before, maybe I would have realized my feelings sooner."

He pushes Stiles back a little as he takes a deep breath. "Do you know that I've never even thought about seriously settling down with anyone? My parents have asked me a few times. Even my friends ask me. But do you know what I always say? I have you. I don't need anyone else. I've never needed anyone the way I need you."

Maybe he should say something about the fact that they're practically dating already, but Stiles interrupts his train of thought.

"What if you only think you're in love with me? What if you're just confused? Hell, Derek, you freaked out last week when we were about to kiss! That's pretty fucking tell—"

Derek cuts off his rambling by backing him up against the door and kissing him.

Stiles tastes like orange juice, amaretto, and lime. His lips are soft and plump, and just a flick of his tongue makes Derek groan—his entire body igniting as anticipation fills his veins.

Nothing has ever felt so right, like this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

It’s not long before the kiss goes from sweet to molten.

Stiles moans as Derek presses impossibly close, his whole body trembling with the need to have every inch of himself covering Stiles’s body.

Derek cups the back of Stiles’s head to deepen the kiss—a kiss he never knew could be so hot. So consuming.

It's rough and hot and raw and makes Derek insanely hard.

Stiles holds his waist. His fingers digging into Derek’s hips as if he’s scared Derek will pull away.

But then he moves, just a tiny thrust of his hips and…well, hello there.

Stiles is hard too.

Derek’s never felt a dick against his own. It should freak him out, but this is Stiles, so instead of tensing up, it just turns him on even more. To know that he did that, and all with a kiss.

Stiles pulls away, his head thunking back against the door. His lips are spit-slick, red and swollen, and his hair is in disarray from Derek’s fingers.

"Derek," Stiles says in a low, gruff whisper that sends an electrical pulse down Derek’s spine. Or maybe it's Stiles's Spark, warming him as Stiles's hands trail over his back.

Derek pants, pressing their forehead together.

Stiles's breath puffs over his face for a few moments before he gets his breathing under control.

Derek gently cradles Stiles's face, kissing him—softly this time.

Stiles melts into him, hands sliding up Derek's biceps, shoulders, and neck until they slip into his hair. He pulls back and gazes at Derek with something close to awe in his expression.

"Stiles…" Derek takes a deep breath. "The only reason I didn't kiss you that night was because we were both drinking. And, if I'm being honest, I didn't think you wanted me like that. You told me you were gay, but you never said anything else. You didn't act any different with me. You still flirted with Zac. How was I supposed to know how you felt? It'd be pretty fucking conceited to think that just because you were gay, you were into me."

"God, you're an idiot. I thought you were straight, Derek." There's silence for a moment before Stiles continues, "Is this real? I feel like I'm dreaming."

Derek brushes his thumbs over Stiles's cheeks, smiling softly when Stiles gently grips his wrists, like he's making sure Derek won't let him go. "It's real. I love you. I'm in love with you."

He'll never be able to stress that enough. Never be able to explain his bone-deep yearning for Stiles. The ache in his chest that is Stiles.

There's yelling through the door as people downstairs start counting down to midnight.

"Ten…nine…eight…"

Stiles whispers, "Say it again."

"Six…five…"

"I love you, Stiles."

"Two…one!"

As the clock strikes midnight, Derek swears the room gets brighter, the warmth of Stiles's Spark surrounding them.

Derek kisses him again.

And again and again, until everything else fades away, and it's just them, lost in the moment, in love, for the first time and forever.

Epilogue - Two(ish) Years Later

Derek swallows thickly as they reach the end of the dock.

Stiles makes a pleased sound, staring out at the lake. The sun bathes him in gold as he tilts his head back, soaking up its rays. "Mmm…I'm glad we came here."

Usually, they only come to his family's cabin during the summer, but it's always a family event, and Derek wants this moment to be just them.

Stiles looks at him, a soft smile on his face. "Remember when we were younger and we'd write messages in bottles and toss 'em into the lake?"

"As a matter of fact…" Derek does remember that. How Stiles insisted on it after reading the Nicholas Sparks book. And, of course, Derek went along with it. Though, their messages were usually wishes for themselves or each other instead of others. Like the one he has today.

He pulls a bottle from the picnic basket he prepared.

"Is that…?" Stiles snorts as realization dawns on him. "You're such a romantic. So what's the message?"

"I wanna be with you," Derek whispers into his ear before kissing his cheek. "And if you start singing Mandy Moore, I'll throw you in the water instead of this bottle."

Derek's hands are steady as he holds out the bottle for Stiles. Under the folded sheet with his wish is an engagement ring. "Here. Hold this. I brought you a bottle and some paper to write your own."

Knowing Stiles, he'll shake the bottle, wonder what the clinking sound is, and find the ring.

Unfortunately, as Derek grabs the paper and another bottle, Stiles rears his arm back and throws Derek's bottle into the lake. It hits the water with a splash disappearing under the water but thankfully comes back up a second later.

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. He should have known this would happen. He really, really should have known.

He reaches behind himself, yanking his shirt over his head as he kicks off his shoes and socks. Then he unbuttons his pants.

"Uh…not that I'm complaining or anything," Stiles says, damn near eye-fucking Derek as he steps out of his pants, leaving him clad in only his black boxer briefs, "but why are you getting naked?"

"You weren't supposed to throw the bottle."

"But…" Stiles frowns. "That's the tradition."

"Yeah, but not that one."

"We put the message in the bottle," Stiles exclaims, arms flailing, "and then we throw the bottle in the lake!"

"Yeah, well, that one has your engagement ring in it."

Stiles's mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air.

Derek shakes his head, huffing a laugh that's amusement mixed with a bit of exasperation. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Love me forever?" Stiles says, looking a little sheepish, but the fresh scent of spring fills Derek's senses. The grass behind them looks a little greener, the sky a little more blue as Stiles's happiness radiates all around them.

"Always." Derek cups the back of Stiles's head and kisses his forehead before diving off the dock.

When he comes up to get his bearings, Stiles yells, "I love you!" but his voice has a teasing lilt, so Derek flips him off before looking around for the bottle. The sun glints off the glass not too far in the distance since the current's not too bad.

Derek's back on the deck within five minutes, down on one knee in front of Stiles.

"Will you marry me?" he asks, shaking the water from his hair.

Stiles's eyes shine with tears as he nods, practically tackling Derek to the ground and almost knocking the ring out of his hand. "Yes!"

Derek slips the ring on Stiles's finger before standing. He cups Stiles's face, kissing him deeply.

"I love you," he breathes against Stiles's lips, happier than he ever thought possible.

"I love you, too." Stiles smiles, the sun illuminating the tiny gold specks in his eyes. "Forever."

#sterek #sterek fic #sterek fanart #holy shit i wrote something

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merrivia · 1 year

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I’ve finally read Pet and am kicking myself I didn’t read it sooner!

I’ve measured out the short stories like I’m nibbling on chocolate, Charlie Bucket style, and I was leaving this till last partly because of that, and partly because I didn’t feel that interested in Ancel (sorry Ancel, I take it back).

It’s fascinating reading about events that occur in Captive Prince but not from Damen’s POV. The idea that everyone has complexities under the surface, and that things aren't always as they seem, is only understood by Damen negatively in the first half of Captive Prince I think. Veretians are untrustworthy and slippery and Machiavellian. And that's not, not true! The Veretian court IS a pit of vipers. But people are also still human, and it's that extra step of understanding the humanity underneath even these acidic, performative snakes which is interesting. Ancel is sharp and smart (and really needs to be taught how to read forthwith). Berenger is morally admirable, and isn't actually sleeping with him. Vannes cares about Berenger in her own small way. Laurent emits a great deal of power and is "instantly commanding" to others (but not to Damen, which must have really infuriated him).

Here’s some more snippets of my thoughts in general:

Waxing is canon! So interesting. Why does no grown man ever shave in the books also? Why isn't attending, also shaving? I think we'll just have to accept that as Pacat's choice. Maybe the only blade she wanted between them was the ghost of swords from a long ago fight/swords in the present?

Isagoras the writer/poet- any connection to Isagoras the historical figure who was embroiled in a power play in terms of Athenian politics and democracy? Who Aristotle called ‘friend of tyrants’? Obviously he’s not meant to be that figure but is it a sort of irony and foreshadowing for the political choices Berenger has to make?

And Akielon writing/poetry is popular among men with status? Interesting. You wonder if Laurent approved a poem waxing lyrical about Ios, or really anything that suggested the Akielons aren't barbarians.

I feel as if Damen would know this poem, and read it to Laurent as part of courting him 🥺

Interesting to see a first impression of Laurent from the viewpoint of someone not instantly obsessed with him- severe and harsh, but no mention of his beauty till later.

I mean this nicely but Damen really has no idea how naturally arrogant and superior he comes across as in this situation, does he? I mean, it’s completely understandable if you think of Akielon society, and how he’s been raised and treated; in fact it would be implausible any other way based on his character traits too. He’s just so bad at pretending to be a slave even as his life is at risk if they find out he’s a prince 😂 oh Damen /pets his curls/. And oh, a *lion* you say....

Just really bad at acting servile, it's so funny. Love him.

Speaking of Lamen, it is a little unsettling how quickly Damen starts to fall for Laurent in Captive Prince and how Laurent truly does hate him, yet…is clearly on some molecular level, attracted to him, I think? It’s just a really heartbreaking and stressful dynamic. His "complete attention" on him...let's face it, if Damen had looked like Govart, Laurent wouldn't be fixated in the same way (I mean this nicely).

Oh my baby Laurent. You know this isn’t right. Are you reenacting a past trauma? Making him suffer what you suffered? Even if you aren’t, your flaw is letting your hatred and anger blind you to your morals. (Lucky a man is going to fall in love with you who is pretty much always on your side even when you don’t always deserve it…). Damen will help you be more honourable /pats blond head/

"Locked” is an apt word isn’t it, considering all that ties them together (and not to mention the gold cuffs and collar…) and oof, Laurent's sexual domination in this scene is quite apparent.

and…

I mean, we all know this is sex by proxy and so does Ancel, who just met Laurent and Damen!

And lastly, I am team Berenger. He's a Good Man and would probably get on pretty well with Torveld and Nikandros, the other dark haired, loyal and responsible men in the trilogy.

Nice to see someone see commoners as people all year round (not simply when their villages are being massacred and their humanity is thrown into stark relief by it)!

#captive prince #pet #ancel #berenger #damen #laurent #lamen

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mostlymaudlin · 1 year

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ooooooh ok juicy sfc posts happening !! i rly honestly truly love to see it. here's my unasked for two cents, as someone who did find the story really hopeful. im posting this not to like, discourse or disagree or discount what im seeing, but to just maybe offer a different pov for ppl who might be trying to file this story away in a less devastating way.

i, of course, think baz deserves better than what he gets from his family. we all deserve to have families that love us unconditionally, and so many of us DONT have that -- including baz. that hurts !! i also think simon didn't deserve to lose his magic, and penny didn't deserve to take on the sole responsibility for keeping simon safe, and agatha didnt deserve to be shoved into every princess/damsel role ppl cast on her, etc etc.

what i like so much abt this series is that ppl dont get what they deserve, but theyre still okay. its why i also love the end of awtwb -- simons LICH ER ALL Y crying lol. he got a whole mega-bucket of extra trauma dumped on his plate that he hasnt even started to process. but its still so clear that he's got the support he needs to live a good life alongside this terrible knowledge. the mage fucked him over even more than he knew, but he doesnt have to define himself by these terms anymore -- we've seen his growth in this regard.

bazs main arc in the series is about how he sees himself -- in crudely simple terms, he rly wants to be a Good Guy (you know, not a vampire, straight, a good pitch etc etc) but sees himself as cursed with that impossibility. this continues as his idealized Good Guy self develops over the course of the books into something that actually feels more achievable to him and is less reliant on the shit his family put on him growing up.

the cool thing about snow for christmas is that -- just like when simon finds out abt the mage at the end of awtwb -- we get to see baz's new sense of self tested. we get to see what he's using to draw the lines of morality. and we get to see that while of course he still cares about what his family thinks, and it still causes him anxiety and trauma and all the shitty things that he doesnt deserve -- he has grown from that place where their value system can make him hate himself.

and moreso on the hope part -- the grimms value, above all, the ability to fit into the roles they think theyre supposed to hold. its bullshit, and they've both caused themselves problems and absolutely are fucking up their children. daphne fully had to be saved by a cult bc of it and shes still not over that mindset -- these ppl need therapy lol. so it's def sick n twisted that they're celebrating baz being able to hide better rather than celebrating who baz is, but is this not the utmost sign of love that they're capable of? baz gets to fit in better -- that's all they've ever wanted for him, whether we agree with that or not. baz seems to recognize the balance of this in the story. he narrates the rest of the dinner with a sort of dry, relieved, disbelieving tone. it’s like hes huffing a laugh, shaking his head, thinking, “did i really used to pin so much of myself on this stuff? how silly.” he is not distressed bc he understands his parents, and he has, again, divorced his sense of self from their expectations. so much so tht he says fuck it and gives simon the lil kissy at the end, because THIS is his new value system: he ALWAYS kisses simon goodbye!

so, is this a step forward for the grimms being more supportive parents? yeah, maybe not. maybe it never gets better than baz hiding his fangs at dinner and everyone doing the bare minimum to accept simon's role in baz’s life. that's not what baz and simon deserve. but it could be enough, because simon and baz have different ways that they measure their happiness by. they have each other and penny and shep and ruth and agatha and niamh and every other person they'll meet in the many, many years ahead of them whose opinions they can choose to make important to them, or reject. i love this for them! the true queer hope story imo. thats what i want for myself and for the people i love.

to be clear: this story made me sob so hard i scared my cats. (im not rly a crier, they did not know what to do). i had to put it down in the middle because i couldnt see the page. any queer person who has Family Shit is bound to get whammied lol. but! i personally find comfort in the idea that we can coexist with people who are important to us but also very difficult to be around, even if its not totally what we deserve. its a very quiet, somber hope -- but that only makes it feel more real to me.

#snow for christmas #snow for christmas spoilers #idk if we're still doing that hahahha #sfc #ss #a #<my ol simon snow analysis tag LOL been a while

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ygodmyy20 · 3 months

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Hey anyone want to read my *looks at doc name* Pukes Words On A Page? From a teru pov of him having a panic attack?

SURE

Also I dunno if what I write is body horror or just regular old descriptions but I'll tag just in case. Also I used to never share these but...I am kinda proud of these crazy writings I do. So. Yeah.

If panic attacks are triggering maybe don't read.

Anxiety is eating him alive.

It crawls through his skin like worms through soil, burrowing its way upwards and settling in his chest. He feels sick, his fingers rattling and ribs tightening like a rope around his bones. His insides are rippling with hums and wheezes and he can’t breathe.

Teru doesn’t know what to do with anxiety.

It’s like his body is being eaten from the inside out, rusted talons scraping out his ribs for meat. Dull as they dig into his liver and the bottom of his spine. Blood rushes away from extremities and his head lightens and maybe he will pass out that would be nice but there is nowhere to go. He can’t seem to shake it. He needs to get things done. But his brain is rampaging with thoughts and ideas and he can’t seem to sit still, legs shaking, fingers clawed.

He is distracted but aware, fully present but his mind is lost in space. Nothing is working, like dragging his feet through the mud. Pouring buckets of sand into his eyes and ears and the thoughts are so loud and screaming at him. Crystals pierce the sides of his tear ducts. He wants to call for help, but he wants to talk to no one. He desires a hug, but also wants to go out and find a random ex-CLAW and punch them so hard they fly into the sky.

Panic is settling in.

He is so exhausted.

His powers barely register under his skin.

He never used to feel anxiety when the world was moving so fast and he had no time to even think about being anxious. But now, it is like an extra layer on top of his skin weighing him down. Was it better when I ran off of adrenaline? He thinks briefly before quickly shaking his head.

No no, that was worse.

He knows that was worse.

It was worse

….right?

But at least it made sense before.

You get chased, you run. You get attacked, you fight back.

Not like whatever convoluted hellscape this is where he feels like he just ran a marathon but is sitting at his desk, homework laid out in front of him, hand fisted in blonde hair that comes loose from his sad excuse for a ponytail. He pulls at his hair, noting as some locks come out. He tosses them to the side, the blonde strands floating to the floor.

He is behind in every class, and no matter what he does, he can’t seem to catch up. He can’t seem to figure out why.

He keeps using his powers to get to school faster because he is sleeping in too much.

He can’t sleep because he can't seem to keep his eyes closed.

His powers are drained and he knows it but he just just barely treading through waves.

All he wants to do go over to the Kageyama’s and play video games with them and Shou, and eat too much and be too full and stay up so late that he starts to imagine that the walls are moving into shapes of figures he can’t describe. Shadows and molten black and figures that reach for him but then he feels the flutter or purples and greens and reds from his friends and everything settles back into the walls from where it came.

If he could just take in a full breath maybe he'll be okay.

#I am okay #No really I actually am! this is just what we do round here #write out the feeeeelings #teruki hanazawa #sorry teru you’re on my brain a lot so uh #you get panic attacks sorry #tw body horror #mild #panic attacks #tw panic attack #writings #one-shot #is this a drabble? I guess it is #like my other drabbly one-shots I may make this a little more polished and post to ao3 #my art #Matraca writes

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ria-writes-stories · 5 months

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Ship: Dizzy

Genre: Pillow(extra cotton/wholesome) Deep romance

Description: A cozy little day in a cold world

-------

(No one's pov)

Doll was walking through the empty dark hollow halls of the colony making her way to her home where nothing but cold emptiness awaited her as always, for there was nothing alive in that house other than her, or well, that's the way it should be eitherway.

"I don't remember you saying you'll come over." Doll said as she hugged the shorter female from the back holding her closely to her as her hands rested on her waist while burying her face in Lizzy's neck. "Oh- you're back early..." Lizzy mumbled under her breath as her eyes widen in shock as Doll simply looked up at her with an empty look as Lizzy simply smiled awkwardly and that is when Doll noticed that Lizzy was holding some pans. "What are you doing?" "Cleaning...?" Lizzy said in a puzzled manner as Doll took a look around to see that her messy oily house was slightly less messy.

"..." "You're welcome by the way." Lizzy said as she placed the pots away. "Seriously, you need to clean this place once in a while it's a health hazard!" Lizzy turned around cleaning Doll's cheek which was covered in oil from her most recent victim.

Doll simply held Lizzy's hand, taking it up to her face and placing a loving soft kiss upon it.

Lizzy blushed softly at this action and simply looked away shyly. "So uh- wanna go to my place? Girls night?" Lizzy was overly shy when it came to their love, ashamed maybe even, whatever you wish to call it she felt it was wrong to some extent. No she wasn't a homophobic lesbian, she just never expected to be so sloppy when she is used to be in control and confident, so, they had a bunch of codes that meant different things depending on the circumstances, for example, right now Lizzy wanted to be alone with Doll in the comfort of her home.

In a blink of an eye the two girls were on Lizzy's bed as Doll held Lizzy closely on top of her with her hands warped around her waist in a firm gentle loving manner while looking into her eyes with a calm cold look.

Lizzy sighed and rolled her eyes as she rested her head on Doll's chest. "You're such a drama queen." Lizzy was indeed slightly annoyed with Doll's powers, because they concerned her. Ever since Doll's parents kicked the bucket Lizzy had to keep her now psycho girlfriend in check. She knew she couldn't. She knew it was a lost cause. She knew she'd only get hurt from this point on but she couldn't let go, she couldn't she-

Doll gently cupped Lizzy's cheek and it wasn't until then that Lizzy realised that she was crying while her mind trailed off into the worst scenarios possible. Doll's gentle yet cold touch made Lizzy look into her deep red eyes, hollow and empty and yet, so pure, pure for they were filled with love, the reason why Lizzy was still there, because Lizzy was there to begin with. That strange unreadable look yet so calm and gentle was what always got Lizzy.

Lizzy sighed softly as Doll cleaned her tears away while pulling her closer to herself, gently pressing their foreheads together. "What's hurting you?" "Nothing." "Don't lie to me." "..." "How many times do I have to tell you that you don't have to ever worry about me?" Doll said as she kissed Lizzy's cheek affectionately. "I worry about us." Lizzy said in a quite frail voice as Doll kissed away her tears away before placing a soft loving kiss upon both of her eyelids. "I love you." Doll said as she kissed Lizzy's forehead. "I love you." Doll whispered as she kissed her cheek, and a kiss after a kiss Lizzy was covered in Doll's affectionate smoothering.

Lizzy's cheeks turned into a soft pink rose shade as she looked at Doll sheepishly as she went in for a kiss while Doll held her by the waist as her other hand intertwined their fingers together while they shared a deep loving soft kiss. It was gentle, it was slow, it was a slowly rising heat within their bodies and heart and it was what made such moments together so very special and wonderful for there was only one and the other.

She was her everything. Her beautiful laughter, her perfect eyes, her mesmerizing voice, and that thick accent of hers, oh the ways Doll would drive her crazy to the point she'd find herself crying helplessly knowing in the vulnerable state she ended up for this woman she adored so much.

She wasn't her everything, not by a long shot, because that would mean she had anything to begin with. Her soft pink eyes, her soft tender lips, her delicate skin. Doll felt hollow and empty, always attaching herself to those she considered as not leeches, for that is how she saw most people, as leeches. But Lizzy wasn't a not leeches, or a leech. Lizzy was something else, something that Doll could never express. They call it love. Doll doesn't know what to call it. All she knows is that she engulfs herself within her presence and everything else around her goes numb and silent in the most comforting way possible.

The two cuddled up closely to each other constantly moving restlessly searching for the best position to embrace each other but each moment they stopped moving for longer than ten seconds they'd start moving again, no position was good enough for them. If Doll was scooping Lizzy, than Lizzy couldn't scoop Doll. If Lizzy was curled up into Doll's chest, than Doll couldn't see her face. If Doll was holding Lizzy on top of her, Lizzy couldn't rest her head down because she couldn't see Doll's face anymore if she rested her face in her neck, but that was her favourite place to rest as well.

The movement would stop when Doll would pick one of the many hug holding positions and firmly hold Lizzy not allowing her to move anymore, because truly Lizzy was the pretentious queen always having a complaint, always changing something, as while Doll would settle for whatever. Trapped within her arms Lizzy had no option but to lay down and rest as they kept each other warm despite the fact that Doll could very easily overheat, it was a risk that Doll didn't mind taking for her.

Doll kissed her over and over again as Lizzy simply let it happen, slowly closing her eyes and drifting to sleep.

Doll held her closely and lovingly, kissing her affectionately as she looked at her with adoring eyes. What was there not to love? She was confident, she was strong in her own ways, she was smarter than she looked it, she was incredible, a wonder, a star among particles of dust in this vast world, and she wanted her all for herself, forever and ever.

Lizzy's eyes open immediately as she felt herself alone, looking straight in front of her without moving an inch or moving her eyes, feeling cold and alone as Doll was nowhere to be seen, before she sadly closed her eyes again going back to sleep sadden that her lover had left her without a warning, only to awaken again with Doll holding her tightly as if she would vaporize otherwise. "Sorry. Your father came in to check on you." Doll explained as she kissed Lizzy all over her face to take away her sadness and pain as her still half asleep girlfriend simply whined and nuzzled into her affectionately.

Doll gave her neck a soft peck as she continued to hold her tightly to herself.

Lizzy ran her fingers through Doll's hands as she hummed softly resting her head on her chest.

The two eventually fell back asleep while holding each other, but they would wake up in the middle of the night at different times, adoring each other in looks and soft caresses before going back to sleep unknowingly doing this like a night cycle to one another.

Each expressed themselves differently but their love was there and it was strong, and nothing would change that. Doll would make sure.

The end

#murder drones lizzy #murder drones doll #murder drones dizzy

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teencopandthesourwolf · 1 year

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FIAT LUX

written for @sterekdrabblesgonelong using the @sterekdrabbles 23/11/22 challenge words that were: PART, MATTER and SPOT with the end-of-month theme of HONESTY.

sterek fic, MATURE, 2245 words, post-nogitsune stiles, stiles stilinski has PTSD, heavy angst, imagined body horror, healing, getting together, falling in love, POV stiles.

READ IT HERE ON AO3

"Hey, you good?"

Somebody spoke. Stiles remembers that. He also remembers thinking, at the time, how it sounded a lot like Derek's voice.

He'd been right. Of fucking course he'd been right.

Stiles was scrambling to process what had been said to him, alongside trying to figure out what exactly was happening to his still-wobbly sense of self.

"Stiles? Are you okay?"

Stiles couldn't answer. Couldn't get any sounds out of his strangled throat, nor force his suddenly arid mouth to move and make the right shapes needed for words.

Everything was muddying all over again, his mind and body becoming a wasteland in a heartbeat. He was barren, a damned apocalypse. Truth be told, since his possession, Stiles was just an empty shell, only pretending to be human. And now his memories were flashing before his eyes, having once again become a trailer for his fucked-up, one-man indie zombie movie. Although—no, actually. No, that wasn't right. This wasn't a trailer. The Horrors were back in full, movie-length, and were now playing out their incredibly specific brand of Existential Dread right before Stiles' glassy eyes in all of their glorious, terrible technicolour.

Spawn of the Dead: Double Feature!

Grab yourself an extra large bucket of Salty'n'Sweet and settle in for the midnight showing.

How, though?

How the hell could the parasitic evil which they'd ended—it absolutely had gone, it had!—be so inexplicably here? Like, right here and now, delightedly wrapping one crooked hand around Stiles's stringy neck while using the other to dig into Stiles's already bent-way-out-of-shape psyche, sinking its dirty claws in all the way again until Stiles couldn't think or see straight or even speak.

How could the thing they'd destroyed still have him so very firmly in its clutches?

In his peripheral there were now only blurred-out, bony digits where his fingers were supposed to be; Stiles couldn't stop the violent shaking as he looked down at his hands and felt bile rise in his throat that tasted of reams and reams of filthy bandages rapidly climbing his esophagus, in a far too-real scene from some disgusting, stop-animation nightmare.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten!

Oh, fuck no.

It was here. Even if it wasn't really; it was. Here, crippling each of his faculties, one by one with a sickening sort of ease, the ghost of it shutting down his capacity to process his surroundings, to operate his body correctly, to function as a human being, even if only a pretend one. It was too quickly obliterating his ability to just be.

To be Stiles.

Void.

Oh, God.

No! No! No! No! No! No! No!

Breath became cement in his lungs.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten!

Re-appeared and yet not, the spectral memory of the Nogitsune was once more burrowing its way beneath pale skin and fragile bone, digging a six-foot deep grave ready to bury Stiles's power to answer a simple question and say No, no, I'm not okay and I really need some help here, and so very easily quashing his in-vain attempts at doing anything at all about this runaway train of a shit-show situation.

Chaos.

He'd lost control again.

This time it was aftermath. Or aftershocks. Or afterburn or afterbirth or some other after-metaphor for absolute guilt.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten!

"Can you hear me, Stiles?"

Stiles wasn't really there anymore.

Stiles was spiralling, fast, due to that broken part of his soul ripping apart all over again and gaping open, a casm, a disgraced depiction of his abject shame for his past actions that now flowed out from the ghoulish wound like spilled wine. He looked down to see invisible gut-shot viscera tumbling out of him, staining his shirt and shoes like claret on crisp white sheets and instantly soaking into his skin and muscles and right through to the marrow of his bones, infiltrating his forever-infected anatomy in a strange sort of self-perpetuating vicious cycle. His heart, full of holes, was leaking its last vestiges of goodness, draining right out of him, his body now just a humanoid estuary. Other Stiles Juices added to the polluted mix—tears and adrenaline and cortisol, all becoming a veritable hurricane in his brain and chest and belly, swirling around viciously, dangerously—until it had drowned out his voice and drenched his autonomy in a chorus of non-existent Let me in! Until he'd lost his will completely to a bottomless whirlpool of contempt.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten!

Oh, Void had truly left its mark.

And so there he was. Just a stricken, hyperventilating five-foot-ten jagged fissure wearing his clothes and his face. A mask was all that was left of Mieczysław Stilinski: Stiles, just a stupid boy in the body of a not-quite man, who was suffocating in the mould and the rot of himself.

The intangible had brimmed over and drip-drip-dripped until it was gushing freely and spilling right out of him and onto the floor, becoming an epic tidal wave of oblivion that would splash and tarnish and permanently stain everything and everybody around Stiles, all that he loved.

Again.

Only this insanity wasn't invisible, not to him. It was a vivid Hieronymus Bosch knock-off. A never-ending bloodbath painted in brushstrokes of the richest of colours. Stiles was an oily waking nightmare, a moving tapestry of his own creation that was playing over and over and over on the glitched-out loop that was his faulty VHS mind.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten!

"Don't step in it," he'd whispered.

He doesn't remember if Derek had answered. He doesn't remember much of anything after that.

Derek, just like everybody else, was poisoned by Stiles's toxicity. Forever marked, just as Stiles had been—because of Stiles.

Stiles, with his bony hands that hid those undetectable tattoos in blacks and blues and mauves that were the inky Rorschach contusions of all his loved one's cuts and bruises; Stiles, with his immortal pattern of dead leaves that twisted along the gnarled branches of his inner Lichtenberg tree; Stiles, with his fear-induced awful decisions that had lead to the lives of so many being taken; Stiles, with his murderous intent—borrowed or not, it made no fucking difference in the end; Stiles, with all of this horror; Stiles, with his blackened soul that was now only recognisable as death.

Yet, in stark contrast, his haemoglobin-bright red ravaged veins were very much not dead. He felt them, now, itching beneath the surface of his skin, unreal yet so real and becoming vine-like, pulsating and stretching out their long creepy creeper-fingers to reach down inside of him, clawing their way back home to the black hole that was his centre. And they were growing. He could feel them swelling in his arms and his legs and his face. Alive. Becoming stronger and stronger, they traversed alongside his nervous system like a road map, journeying through what was left of his tattered existence and getting so big and so fat they too were branches and were somehow both choking him and splitting him clean open—Stiles, roots and all—his thoughts and actions reduced to nothing more than a fractured glass pane in an already damaged photo frame which threatened to crack and turn him into thousands of thousand-year-old shards of nothing but absolute destruction.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten!

Out, damned spot.

Maybe Derek had said more words. Begged and pleaded for Stiles to talk to him, to make sense of things for him. For Stiles to tell him what the hell was going on.

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnineten!

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine—

ten?

Or was it eleven, or twelve that time?

Too late.

Rip. Tear. Shatter.

Stiles had collapsed under the weight of his own mistakes.

When something in his brain managed to press the pause button on the horror show, there was only numbness.

Nothing.

Then remorse had once more seeped through his pores like a poisonous gas, a hazy mist of it eventually filling him and triumphing over delirium because, after some time—minutes, hours, days, maybe—Stiles was finally able to communicate again.

Well, sort of.

There were four words he had to offer.

"It's all my fault."

And as he'd made frantic attempts to once again count his uncontrollably shaking fingers, he'd whimpered those words on repeat, for an indeterminate amount of time and in a thousand different voices, none of which sounded like his own.

"It's all my fault."

onetwothree—start again.

"It's all my fault."

onetwothreefourfivesixseven—shit.

"It's all my fault."

onetwothreefourfivesixseveneightnine—

"Hey, I've got you."

Derek?

If he wasn't dreaming, it meant Derek hadn't left him. He should have. Stiles was to blame for so very many terrible, terrible things.

But Derek had stayed and minded him, regardless.

He took Stiles in, after that. Fed him. Forced him to wash. Watched him as closely as he ended up holding him, in a way that he shouldn't. In a way that nobody ever should because Stiles was a travesty. Undeserving. But Derek? Derek was good and so Derek did it anyway. And those big arms folding around Stiles broke Stiles all over again, broke him impossibly more. Only it was a different kind of break this time around. Maybe not gentle so much as it was firm and necessary. A resetting of bones.

Then, somehow, slowly, painfully, Derek helped to put Stiles back together again, which was nothing short of a Herculean feat.

That Humpty Dumpty Stiles, he'd spent weeks sobbing and going mute, sobbing and going mute, and sobbing and sobbing and shouting and shrieking and screaming the loft down, bringing his feral nightmares back to life and out into the open and into the here and now, into Derek's already too-difficult world.

Stiles was just a transparent bag of those reset bones. Fused with fear and sorrow and so much sin, glued up all wrong, and held together with tears and snot and guilt and shame—and an ancient, evil-tainted love; a love possessed.

Until he wasn't. Until there were hints of a new kind of love shimmering around the edges of their lives. Something quiet. Something lighter.

A love made up of Stay here with me and Stay another night and consistently screaming into the dawn but never any pity nor judgement and whole days of silence and then communication via eyebrows and heartbroken Fuck Yous and last-minute notes left on the refrigerator door and second and third and fourth, fifth, sixth chances and just being there and Shut Ups with no real heat behind them and listening and listening and listening some more and sandwiches left untouched until there were sandwiches half-eaten and finally sandwiches scarfed down at the speed of light again and conversations with thumbs-up and thumbs-down and Don't Call Me Dude and comfortable silences and unexpected classical music afternoons and awfully bad puns and quality time spent alone together and Wanna watch the Discovery channel? and smiling eyes and crappy paper planes and precarious mountains of hot buttered toast and stolen borrowed too-big Henley's and thrifted old sci-fi novels and English to Latin dictionaries and games of PSYCH! from opposite sides of the same room and eyes being rolled into the backs of thick skulls and gallons and gallons of Dirty Chai Lattes and a far too-kind and outstandingly stubborn asshole's absolute forgiveness and furtively holding hands in the dark and weighted long looks that said I know, it's okay—I'm broken too and the silent question of Do you want me? and the tactile answer being Of course I do, you idiot. Of fucking course I do.

It was a love that made Nogitsune love never, ever love. A real love that shook its head softly at such dreadful affection.

Werewolf trumps Demon, every damn time.

Stiles might not be able to laugh—at least not properly, not yet. He's getting there, though. The quirk of his lips today is bigger than yesterday's meagre twitch. And who knows, tomorrow could even bring a grin. Stranger things, right?

There's still pain. Stigma. Suffering. Still so, so much work to do. Only now it's manageable. A touch easier.

Derek's touch.

There are many more hard days and nights to come, Stiles knows that, but he is nothing if not single-minded and he's making steady progress. Every day, he's mending. Thanks to Derek and Stiles's determination, the fissure that he'd become is closing up and he is no longer infected with quite so much self-doubt. There's scar tissue, sure. How could there not be?

But Stiles is healing.

He's being replenished and renewed, little by little, bit by bit, and at long last he's finally finding his voice again. The right tone, a familiar pitch—and it's strongest in those times he utters a particular word. It's a name, actually, so often spoken as a mantra, or mouthed delicately like a prayer.

"Derek?"

Of fucking course.

"I'm here."

No more counting fingers.

As it happens, Stiles Stilinski is finding his way back to his life and to himself with the help of Derek Hale, sometimes stumbling and yes, often having to crawl from the oppressive blackness, dragging himself through it using only his non-existent fingernails and stubborn will, barely making it out alive by the skin of his teeth.

Yet he knows, now, that he'll conquer that darkness. Because he's not alone anymore. There's help at hand, in his hand, where Stiles holds a candle that burns just as brightly as the Sun, the Moon and the Truth, and won't ever blow out—not while shielded by the shape of the 'wolf.

Fiat Lux.

Let there be light.

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princesspastel8 · 18 days

Text

Chapter 10

Third POV

Due to the indecent with Jeff, Tiffany has decided to add hours to Eboni's therapy sessions in hopes that the teen would open up as to what happened that night. Every day after school, Eboni is forced to endure four hours of more therapy.

To add salt to the wound, Tiffany has been watching the girl like a hawk. The woman decides to stay home while her husband Daniel is away on business. The foster mother wants to make sure Eboni is truly okay before she has to leave again for work. Tiffany has been picking Eboni up from school every day for the past week and a half, dropping her off at her therapy sessions as well- making sure the teen didn't miss any.

Eboni is currently staring at the clock on the wall of the room, watching the minutes pass slowly. "Thirty minutes left..." she thought to herself.

"Eboni. You have sat there for four hours and haven't said a word. You need to talk to me." Loraine, the therapist, pressed.

The teen ignores her as usual, frowning under her mask even though Loraine can't see her face. The silence causes the therapist to lose a bit of her patience.

"Your parents are paying a lot of money for you to be here. It would be a shame for that money to go waste Eboni." Loraine said sternly.

That caused the teen to send a rather chilling glare at the therapist. "They aren't my parents. They're just people who took pity on me for their own personal gain. My real parents are six feet under." Eboni snapped.

Loraine raised a brow, writing down on her clipboard, which irks the teen even more. "Talk about your parents. What are the latest memories of them?"

"Fuck off."

"Eboni Brown, you're making this harder on everyone around that's only trying to help you. Please be more considerate." The therapist tries to reason, her patience thinning.

"Loraine, was it? Look, I don't need a person with a piece of paper of their accomplishments to tell me how fucked in the head I am. Since this is a place of honesty why don't you start? You took this profession not to help people, but to stack loads of money in shorts amount of time. It's funny, taking a job that requires bucket loads of patience for their clients, yet you lack even an ounce of that."

The vein bulging from the therapist temple is hilarious to Eboni, but she holds in her laugh. Glancing at the clock, she notices her session is finally over. Eboni stands, placing her hood over her head and hands in her pockets. The teen walks to the door, giving another glance towards Loraine.

"Since you didn't deny anything I said, how about instead of asking me pointless shit you just sit there and think of the money you'll get from our extra hours together." Eboni said before leaving the woman's office and building.

The teen jumps into the back seat of Tiffany's car, hoping she wouldn't ask how the session went - unfortunately, luck is never on her side. "How did it go?" She asked while driving the way home.

Eboni answered the question by placing her airpods into her ears, turning her music to maximum volume. Tiffany sighs, knowing nothing has come of increasing Eboni's time with Loraine- if anything, it made her worse. The teen has become more closed off. Any chances of Eboni opening up to Tiffany went down the drain once she announced the more added sessions.

The teen knows she hads issues. She knows the way her brain operates isn't normal. Yet being forced to open up about her past isn't what she had in mind on 'helping' figure everything else. She wished Tiffany didn't jump to conclusions that night. The woman thought she was going to cut herself. For what? Eboni's skin looks hideous enough. Why make it worse with scars like the ones her face?

Eboni wouldn't have told Tiffany the truth anyway. She didn't want to risk not being about to see Jeff again. Strange, right? Longing to see a serial killer who showed the slightest interest in her. He was right. Everything he said was true, and Eboni no longer has the will to deny it. So she bites the bullet with these sessions, finding a bit on enjoyment in pissing Loraine off. The teen can only hope on seeing Jeff sooner rather than later.

Tiffany parks in the driveway of their home, Eboni jumping out the car and rushes inside. "Eboni, wait, I forgot to tell -!"

Eboni didn't stop, nor could she hear Tiffany. The only thing Eboni wants is a nice shower, some snacks, and a quiet night of rest. However, the teen is greeted by a blonde munching on her favorite chips while laying in her bed, and a quiet girl sitting on her couch.

"Sup." The blonde nods, Eboni having forgotten both of their names. "Had no candy, so I had to eat these." She shrugs.

"I-I'm so s-sorry about her Eboni. I-I tried to tell her how rude she was, but s-she wouldn't listen. Here! I'll give y-you some money to p-pay back for the chips." The other said quietly but shyly.

Eboni was stunned, but that feeling quickly went and was replaced by anger. "Why the fuck-"

"Tiffany let us in. She was almost in tears when we told her we're your friends." Blonde said with a grin.

"We aren't fucking friends. And you have five seconds to get off my bed!" Eboni shouts, clenching her fist.

The goth one yanks the Blonde off her bed and snatches the chips from her hands. She must've felt the rage rolling off of Eboni. "H-Here... we were j-just worried about you. You've been avoiding us at school a-and wouldn't answer our calls or texts so -"

"Why are you two forcing yourselves into my damn life? I didn't ask to be your friend. I don't want to be your friend. I only gave you my number so you bitches could leave me alone! I fucking forgot your names! That's how unimportant you shits are to me!" Eboni snaps at them, her nails digging into the palms of her hands.

The two girls glance at each other before looking at Eboni, both sharing a look of compassion in their eyes. They seem to understand how the teen must feel.

"Well, I'm Taylor. She's Iris." The blonde one said then points at the other.

"We....understand how you feel." Iris said gently.

"How the f-"

"We met more of them." Taylor said, the look in her eyes becoming serious. "Remember I said there's more of 'em."

Eboni raised a brow, feeling herself calm down. She moves to sit at her desk, opening her laptop, and begins typing away. "Yeah, I remember. Did a bit of research...."

"What kind? On who?" Iris asks, moving to stand over her to get a better view of Eboni's laptop.

"All of them. I created a file for each of them. Honestly, there are so many serial killers in one town. Who willingly moves into a shit hole like this....stupid bitch." She grumbles, referring to her previous foster mother- Melissa. "You two encountered one and survived? How?"

"Same way you did. Faught those fuckers." Taylor shrugs. "The one I had the misfortune of meetin' calls himself masky. He has a partner, though."

"He calls himself hoodie. They attacked us at my home during a sleepover over a few months ago..." Iris said softly.

"Mhm... yeah there's a few reports on them always killing in pairs of... three? Sometimes two? The third one would be -"

"Ticci Toby...Iris sister encountered him a year ago before masky and hoodie attacked us that night." Taylor explains, about to lay down in Eboni's bed again until the teen gives her a warning glare.

"This....shit is crazy...and they haven't tried coming after you? Like at all?"

Iris didn't answer. She looks at Taylor, hoping she'd come up with a response. "Nah. I shot masky so I doubt those fuckers wanna to get full of lead." She chuckles proudly.

Eboni knew they were lying. If those killers are anything like Jeff, she doubts they'll just forget about the victims that got away. The teen doesn't care, though. They have their secrets, and Eboni has her own. The teen focuses her attention back on her laptop, clicking on the file labeled 'Jeff'.

She sighs as she reads through his file for what feels like the hundredth time. Eboni couldn't get him out of her mind. The way his hands felt gripping her wrist and throat, the way his breath felt against her ear when he whispered to her, that crazed smile, and those red eyes.

The way his body felt pressed against hers. She's thankful to be wearing her mask since she's biting down on her lip at the thoughts of this serial killer. Eboni longs to see him again. She hates being the one waiting. She hates being the one desperate for him, but she knows she can't hide it from him. She wouldn't anymore. Jeff sees right through her.

It makes her feel vulnerable in the most terrifying yet delicious way. She has this odd feeling that he wouldn't try to end her life again. A game. He wants to play a game with her. With a heavy sigh, she closes her laptop, climbing into bed. Eboni hopes that she's trapped in the smiling killer's mind as he is in hers. The teen has no idea just how much her life will change from their unfortunate encounter.

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anxietywriter · 9 months

Text

movie theater prompts!

barbenheimer is upon us. so let's see how your characters would go about attending the good ol' theater and showing those blood sucking execs that actors and writers make things infinitely better and more enjoyable :)

sneaking in snacks to the theater by buying a BUNCH of stuff like cookies gummies, sodas, and just hoping that the clerk doesn't search the conspicuously full backpack that the group is bringing in with them. (pro tip: throw the wrappers and stuff away outside of the theater)

meet cute when a character goes to see a movie and woops that person working there is really hot. wdym i don't usually get popcorn??? i love it so much, oh yeah extra popcorn. so much popcorn. three buckets of them. please notice me. their friends are exasperated and surprised that it actually works

characters that try the whole stacking on top of each other trick for one movie ticket. predictably, it looks very obvious. unpredictably, it works.

sitting next to each other in a full theater. "get your arm off of MY armrest" "tf??? This is MY armrest. move." "YOU move." they get kicked out for being too loud and keep bickering.

love when the pov cuts to a character you wouldn't expect who's having the time of their life at a children's movie showing. clapping and singing along to the songs EVERYTHING.

the one character that needs a tissue box everytime they go into a theater. their friends pat them comfortingly when they start sniffling during the sad parts. they definitely cry during Disney movies that's just their energy.

something about leaving the middle armrest up so they can snuggle together

boy oh boy it sure is cold in this here theater. Man... If only SOMEONE had a jacket. am i a sucker for sharing clothes? Yes. Yes i am.

#writing prompts #story prompts #prompt list

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wanderingpages · 1 year

Text

.・。.・゜Dark AU ゜・。.

V E R S I O N 2

“It’s you that I’ve been thinking about and I shouldn’t be. You’re cattle waiting for slaughter, baby.”

TFOTA // All Human // AU : Cardan tries not to lust after the girl he's supposed to kill.

Trigger Warnings: Crude language, Drugs, Sex, Murder/Talks of murder, Sexual/Physical Assault.

Cardan's POV

Madoc has been absolutely no help at all. “You sure?” He asks this two days after the party, when I called to confess about the shit I pulled with Locke.

“Yeah,” I deadpanned. “She hates Care Bears. Or maybe just the yellow one.”

“They do seem like annoying little things,” he mused.

“Madoc.” There’s no way this is a serious job, I had figured. This is punishment for blowing up Asha and Balekin. The only thing that had kept me from going absolutely insane was Elvira. Her head rubbed against mine as if to tell me to calm down and watch my blood pressure, because I’m way too young to be having it spike like this. “I saved her from Carrot -Top. Is that not enough for you? Can you give me something to shoot at now?”

“No,” he said, “To both. I need information from this girl, King, and you’re going to fucking get it for me. So she knows your name. Alright, go back and get to know her for real. No better way of getting information than to actually talk to her.” Except I have no idea how to organically slip into this girl’s life without revealing what a stalker I am.

So, I don’t, partly to stick it Madoc because I haven’t heard from him since that conversation ended, and partly because this is fucking tedious and kind of wrong even for my standards. It’s like I’d be grooming her for slaughter or something. “I should just kill her and get it over with, right?” I ask Elvira but she’s half asleep so I don’t really expect an answer. I run a knuckle over her ear and her nose twitches the way I remember Jude’s does.

I sigh, it’s been nearly a week now and trailing Jude is really not the highlight of my life. I’m running on coffee and blow. If I don’t get at least some semblance of peace, I might actually go into cardiac arrest. There’s only so much asinine things I can take for a whole week. I should probably be perched on a tree watching Jude sleep or paint her toenails or something but I need a fucking break. I check my phone to see a new message. I had requested a background check after Madoc’s joke of a phone call and it seems like there’s a dossier ready for me. I leave Elvira to sleep, shutting the door so no one gets the chance to bother her. It’s not exactly my place, but Dain’s instead. Technically, the late Mayor Eldred’s estate, so to speak, but he’s dead on paper, and most likely in some foreign country trying to find us a new step mom to corrupt, or trying to push Mab’s Specialty trans-continental.

It’s rare that I ever use this way to leave, usually it’s a flight of stairs at the back off the house that leads straight to the garage, so I feel a bit out of bounds as head towards the grand staircase. As it is, Dain is throwing one of his stupid little shitshow parties. It’s blacklight themed tonight, and when I enter the central landing, nothing but the white shirt I have on glows. There’s buckets of paint lining up the wall leading to the living room. Someone immediately greets me and offers to paint between the lines of the ink etched into my skin. “I think it’d look cool if we paint this one,” she winks, tapping a long and glowing nail to my neck. “I’ll take extra time to get the scales all right,” she promises, dragging the nail down my neck. I grab her wrist and pull it off me but I don’t let go.

“What if I want your lips on me instead?” I glance at her bright pink lips, then tap at my cheek and she giggles before reaching up and kissing me there, no doubt leaving a glowing mark on my skin.

“Is that the only place you wanted my lips?” she slides her hand from my hold then against my chest, slowly working down. I’d rather have them wrapped around my cock but I hold back, giving her a wink before the door opens and group of people walk in.

“Looks like you’ve got more customers to paint,” I tell her. She pouts but tends to them when I start to walk towards the living room, already disoriented with the décor. I’ve never been here when there wasn’t a party, and every single time, nothing has ever remained the same. To my surprise, I spot Locke nearly instantly. I scowl, thinking I should have gone back to the party that night and finished the job, because it annoys me immensely that that ginger slut is at this party, mouth breathing dust off of some girl’s tits. How’d he even get an invite? For as smart as Dain is, he’s also two parts dumb when it counts. No doubt he posted on his social media something along the lines of “party at mine, you know where it is.”

Tempted as I was to go back that night though, I had ended up watching Jude. She was smart enough to let me drop her off a few blocks away from her house, guess her braincells returned to tell her probably not to trust a strange man with a gun. I followed her on foot, watched her key in a code to a three story showpiece, then I actually did sit perched on a tree, like a fucking vampire.

Finding Locke seemed unnecessary when I suddenly got a show of her shimmying out of her second skin-like leggings then falling face first into her plush mattress, pert ass in the air, clad in something lace and not much else. Halfway through the night, my sweatshirt came off of her, and while that stayed on the bed next to her, the ripped shirt and then her bra had been tossed to the floor. I watched her grab hold of my sweater, pull it against her breasts and hike her leg up to further trap it against her body. My face feels warm, thinking about it and I try to ignore the semi in my pants.

I spot my brother, his nose is practically scraping the inside of his wrist, trying to get every last particle of coke possible until he can’t anymore, so he opts to lick the residue off. When he finds me, his eyes light up. “Grade A,” he tells me, like it’s his first time tonight. He tosses me the half full dime bag, but I figure I’m at my limit for the day, so I pocket it. I nod over to his wife, who’s beside him tonight. It’s unusual to see them together so I can’t help but watch when he reaches over her and pulls at the girl Locke was nosing. The Manic Panic blue in her hair glows bright, along with the pink and green swirls on her body that look smudged with hand prints. It takes me a moment to recognize her when our eyes meet. She had been one of the girls who had arrived to the party with Jude the other night. She doesn’t recognize me, or if she did, she’s too blissed out to even try to piece it together.

I frown at the way my heartbeat picks up, hoping that Jude hadn’t followed her here of all places. She’s not here though; I have to remind myself, I had left her fast asleep just a couple of hours ago. I wonder, if maybe it would be better if she was part of this crowd, though. That way I wouldn’t feel so guilty trailing an innocent girl, right?

Dain’s hands are tugging the straps of the blue-haired girl’s dress down, while his wife pulls her hair to the side, and sucks at her skin. they’re in plain sight, but so is everybody else. It’s nearly two I the morning, and the party, as per usual, is gradually turning into a drugged out orgy.

“You like watching?” I feel a tug at my arm before a girl plasters herself against me. Her hair glows like flames under the UV lights. Her hand runs down to my belt and she may want to fuck me, but it’s the baggy she’s after when she fumbles into a pocket.

“I want to watch you,” I play along, taking her arm. “On your knees,” I tell her and when she looks up at me, I see she’s even got colored contacts that match her hair. I nod towards the other side of the room. She grins, pulling my hand to follow her to the door there. The room should be a garage, but it’s been converted since Eldred’s “passing” and is now used by Dain to tattoo his clients. I reach for the lights, but there’s no need; I know this place inside and out, being that I’ve been Dain’s client more than a few times. If Dain ever needed a portfolio, he could easily use my body as a progress board. From sloppy doodles and harsh line work to seamless shading and gorgeous artwork; I didn’t care at first, I think I just wanted all those ugly marks covered. It wasn’t until a few years ago when I really requested meaningful shit from him.

I figure I have enough time to kill now, so I let my new flame lead me to a small stool, before she drops to her knees for me. The get up looks cheap in the florescent lights, but she’s still pretty and I don’t want her sucking me off any less. So, I sit down and lean back, spread my legs for her while she unbuckles my belt and goes for my zipper. I reach and pull her shirt down, pretty nipples greet me all taught and perky. Not real, but I like them anyways. I run my thumb over them as she pulls my length out, still partially hard from thoughts of Jude earlier. I groan and grab a fistful of her hair, guiding her head when she starts to tongue me.

My grip tightens when the door opens and I peek an eye open to see Ghost raise only one brow at me, the one I convinced him to let me pierce so many years ago. She starts to bob her head against me and I really wish he’d go away, but when he doesn’t, I let loose a sigh and ask, “What?”

He rolls his eyes, “If I wanted to watch, I’d have been quiet about coming in.”

“Yet here you are,” I eye him through lidded eyes, from the head and maybe from the come down. I know he’s being spiteful because that dossier can wait a few extra minutes and absolutely nothing will change between what I’m doing and how that involves Jude.

“Trust me,” he says, “I found something that’s going to rock your world harder than this broad ever could.”

“Hey,” I chastise, halfheartedly. Sometimes I wonder what era this guy thinks he’s from. Broad? “It better not be your dick again,” I say as an afterthought. “I will throat punch you.”

“What’s a few dick pics between bros?” he grins, “What does she want?”

“Coke,” I manage when she takes me deeper. It’s hard staying hard when he won’t stop watching. It’s not the first time he’s been around while I fucked somebody, but it sure is so goddamned bright this time and I’m a hell of a lot sober than usual. He walks towards the minifridge and grabs a silver can. Its diet Coke I realize when he tosses it to me. I catch it, and the jolt makes her gag. I grimace and tap her shoulder, guiding her off of me. “you’re a piece of shit,” I tell Ghost. I swipe at the side of her mouth, pressing my thumb to her lips. She sucks it, looking up at me with wide eyes. it makes me pause for a moment, because for a split second, those gross orange contacts look unnervingly light brown. That startles me more because usually in my daydreams, its green eyes looking up at me.

“Sorry,” I tell her, handing her over the can. “Maybe next time.”

She looks confused, grappling at the can. I fix her shirt for her helping her up. She’s perplexed and put out, but I don’t get time to say much else to her because Ghost takes her hand and guides her out, looking like a princely escort to a ball rather than what it really is. This time turning the lock when the door shuts. I run a hand through my hair unable to stay annoyed or in my head much longer because Ghost is walking towards the back of the room, to the other door that leads outside. I fix myself and follow him out to the lake. Its dark as hell looking on to the other side, but not enough to make me forget I had lived on that side. The shitty poverty stricken side where the drug use isn’t as glamorized as it is here, but just as profound. That’s the side Mab’s Specialty thrived on.

The Spanish moss rustles against the cypress tree at the center of the backyard. I look up to see Valerian sitting on a branch. He waves down at me, but his eyes are focused on the windows, or rather through them. He’s not much for parties, or crowds or any type of exposure to germs, but he’s always been a curious onlooker and that cypress tree is his favorite vantage point.

He jumps off, landing like he could have gone to the Olympics for it and takes a seat on a fallen log near a doused fire pit. Ghost sits beside him, a good distance away to appease him. He reaches into the inside of his jacket and hands me a rolled manila folder. I trade off with the bag of blow I don’t really want anymore. “I didn’t even have to suck your dick for it,” he grins.

“No,” Valerian muses, quietly, “but you did have to kiss his ass.”

“Whatever,” Ghost finds a rolled blunt in his pocket and hands it over to Valerian, “Didn’t forget you, baby, this is for you.” Valerian reaches for it, then the lighter I thought I lost a few days ago. I should have known Ghost pocketed it.

I straighten out the folder then open it, not surprised to see Jude’s government name at the top. Its surface level information, stuff that I could have gotten off the college board’s back log, but far more than anything Madoc had given me, that’s for sure. I look at Ghost, in time for him to wave his hand lazily, “Turn the page.”

I narrow my eyes, not liking how grim his attitude had gotten. My stomach is already sinking, but nothing could prepare me for what I see next. “But…how?”

My heart is so loud in my ears, I’m surprised I even hear when Ghost explains, “they weren’t in the same grade, but they spent a few summers together. Summer camp,” he explains.

“One hell of a coincidence,” I mutter, looking at the grainy cropped photo of two girls with their arms around each other, smiling at the camera. The girl on the left has bright eyes, freckles dot her face and I know it only ever heightened due to sun exposure. Her dark blonde hair is pulled high on her head and I try not to think about how short she had cut it after we met. Her face is much younger than the face I knew, but there’s no mistaking her. I feel sick and maybe a little guilty, unable to stop myself from remembering the last time I saw her. Unable to stop myself from remembering the last night I held her.

I trace the side of her face, my throat feeling constricted suddenly. “This is fucked, even for Madoc,” Ghost tells me, and he’s right. Madoc had been the one to find me that night, after all.

For once, I’m the one screening calls. I don’t answer when he tries to reach me, and it’s been at least once a day for the past few weeks. I send him a quick text, probably to make sure he knows I'm still alive. I can’t talk to him yet. I don’t know what I’d say. It’s one hell of a punishment for starting a fire, that’s for fucking sure. He’ll be happy to know I’m still trailing Jude, though. If anything, the revelation of her knowing my dead girlfriend – dead fiancée – only intrigues me more.

I thought I had Jude’s schedule down pat, she hardly ever deviates from walking to school, going to the gym, meeting up with her friends and studying. But she’s been self isolating for the past few days. At first I thought it was a cold or something. Then she started shutting her blinds and I thought maybe I’ve been found. But even when she peeks through gauzy curtains, her eyes never quite find mine.

So now, I’m squatting in a car with Ghost who’s chugging coffee like his life depends on it. His free hand flies over the keyboard of his laptop, making stupid little clicking sounds. Still, I rather him than Valarian at the moment. I may trust Valarian with my life but I don’t quite trust him with other people’s lives and right now, I’m assuming Jude is still wanted alive and all that. Besides that, he’d probably bleach the hell out of my car and suffocate us with the smell. He’d nitpick everything then probably dissect the spider I'm pretty sure I saw scurry across the dash a few minutes ago.

Ghost is also good with computers. He’s been sitting with me, going through Jude’s security feed for the last few hours. It’s what’s getting me on edge now, if I’m honest. He pauses to open the lid of his cup and pour in some white powder. He places the laptop on the console between us and scrubs through about a week’s worth of the Jude Show. It makes me uncomfortable how easily he had gotten through the system.

She seems like a normal person going through the motions of her day. Ghost occasionally stops the speed for some kind of dramatic effect, “I’m humanizing her,” he tells me when I give him a look. “She’s still a person, you know.”

“What’s the saying? Dead girl walking?”

She eats, he scrubs through, she changes clothes, he scrubs through, she studies from three different books, he scrubs through, answers a phone call, laughs, hangs up, he scrubs through, eats, showers, yoga, looks at her home décor like she’s never seen it before, picks up a vase, puts it down, tilts her head at a wall, scrunches her nose when she looks at photos, leaves to check the mail, tosses the stack on a table, answers a call, scrub, scrub, scrub – and I’m losing my absolute mind.

“This is weird,” I tell him. Had we even gotten through a single day?

“Really weird,” Ghost admits, “watch,” he tells me, and I don’t understand what he wants me to see by showing me the same day over again. Until I realize it’s not the same day when I recognize she’s got on a completely new set of clothes. This time, when she takes a phone call, her face isn’t pleasant. She hangs up angrily and I blink, startled when she throws the cell against the wall. She seems to let out a scream before dropping to the floor and burying her face into her knees. If she had been this dramatic while I was on her tree, I might have been less bored.

“Call logs?” I ask. He minimizes the window and shows me a pdf file of her cellphone statements before clicking off and going back to the feed. “Why does she keep looking at the wall?” my brows furrow when it seems like a new day has started and Jude is standing in front of a wall with her hands on her hips. Her phone must be dead or broken because I still make out the device right where it fell. “Why is she so heavily surveillanced?” it’s a belated question because maybe I hadn’t really been focusing before, but it is a little daunting to see all the separate feeds in what’s supposed to be someone’s home. Surrounding the property is understandable, but inside? Even Dain’s estate – the Mayor’s House – isn’t as watched as this.

Scrub, scrub, scrub, Jude is sitting cross legged in her living room floor, a laptop open in front of her. She skims over something before quickly shutting the laptop. I can’t make out her face, her back is to the camera, but she looks tense. I think Ghost has paused the video for a moment, but then she reaches for the laptop again. She clicks around, a lot, more and more frantic every time she hits the keypad. She shuts the laptop again and leaves the room, coming back with a sledge hammer.

“Jesus,” Ghost mutters watching her repeatedly bash her laptop to pieces. Its starts to look mechanical after a moment, then she drops the hammer to the ground and wipes at her forehead. She leaves and comes back moments later, this time with a change of clothes – a sweatshirt I didn’t think I’d see again – and a set of blankets. She grabs the sledge hammer and holds it to her chest after taking a seat on the floor. I'm sure there’s still laptop guts all over the floor, but she seems unfazed, wrapping the blanket around her. She’s a completely different person from the girl I had been following around for a month.

Idly, I wonder if she’s parent trapped me at some point. Ghost scrubs again but something off camera catches my eyes. By no means are we on an empty road, but there’s not a lot of traffic either. It’s not hard to notice when the same car drives by multiple times. I narrow my eyes before I turn back to the screen. Jude is looking at that wall again. Suddenly she reaches and half her body is obscured until she returns, this time with a crossbow I can only imagine had been mounted to the wall.

“Beginning to think miss girly pop is a danger to herself, at this point,” Ghost mutters, throwing back the rest of his coffee. I won’t pretend to know the ins and outs of a bow, so I'm not even sure she knows what she’s doing when she raises it close to her face, squinting into what looks like a telescope. The handle resembles that of a gun, so I can make out when she plays with the trigger. “Think they taught this in summer camp?” only vaguely do I remember Sophie saying something about knowing to aim a bow, but I think I always assumed it was a manual one. I’m not sure of the relevance just yet, but I stopped believing coincidences quite some time ago.

The car passes by once more and Jude manages to find arrows the next time I see her. “What the fuck kind of trojan was in her laptop?” Ghost muses. “Oh shit,” he sits up a little straighter, and my eyes go wide. I know its prerecorded, but it still feels like her eyes have pierced through my soul when she looks directly into the camera. She raises the bow, aims, then shoots. The screen goes black. Ghost is fast in finding another camera, but the closest one only shows the hallway leading to the living room. I can make out the blankets on the floor and pieces of hardware, but no Jude.

“What’s the timestamp on that?”

“Eight hours ago.” He scrubs ahead, but I already see the car drive by yet again. I find my gun and check the clip. “Fuck,” Ghost mumbles, closing his laptop and finding his own arsenal is secured. “What the fuck did Madoc get you into?”

The next time he calls, I’m going to beat his ass.

“Knew I should have stayed home today,” he whines like I’m Miss Frizzle, but it’s in jest because he looks too excited to really be complaining. I check my watch, thinking we’ve given them enough time to throw the alarm and break the door handle. We walk through the front door because I was right about the timing. I check my watch again, assuming we’ve got only a handful of minutes before the landline rings, and if that’s not answered, cops will be dispatched within minutes. I love a good countdown moment.

We stand on either side of the doorway leading into the living room. It’s a standoff, and I’d laugh at the scene if this was any other occasion; two men pointing their guns at a girl in her pajamas while she, in turn, holds a crossbow. Physics hadn’t been my favorite subject, but I’m well aware a bullet is faster than an arrow, so it’s not looking too swell for Katniss over there.

Ghost and I are directly behind the men, but if Jude notices, she doesn’t acknowledge. She’s got a tight set to her lips, and I frown when I glimpse her eyes. “Come on little lady,” the slimmer of the men says with humor. He’s got a slight German accent. “Put the toy down, we don’t have time to sit and play.” The other man chuckles. I don’t think Ren and Stimpy quite know what they’re dealing with. In retrospect, I don’t think I know either.

“You should leave,” Jude says, and it makes the hair at the nape of my neck stand on end. I glance to Ghost, wondering if he’s caught the monotony. He puts a hand to his chest, lets out a quiet “Sheesh,” and mouths, “Be still, my beating heart.” I frown at him.

“You just give us what we want and no one has to get hurt,” Stimpy says.

“What… you want…?” Jude’s brows furrow. “No,” she tells them. The phone rings.

“Answer it,” Stimpy tells her.

“No,” she says again. Her head tilts when she finally looks beyond them, to Ghost and I. Rather, just me.

She yelps when Ren shoots her arm. She pulls the trigger on instinct, the bow pierces into Stimpy’s throat. Ghost fires three rounds before Ren can react. The crossbow drops from Jude’s hand and she holds her arm. Blood flows over her fingers, and she gasps, looking up to Ghost, panic in her eyes when he walks closer. “You shot me?”

He doesn’t correct her, just bends to pick her discarded weapon. “Don’t scream,” he tells her sternly. Her mouth clamps shut. Her eyes start to water. I step over scraps on the floor and grab the landline that still rings. She sucks in a breath when her eyes meet mine again. It’s almost as if she had forgotten I was there.

“Sorry,” I tell her, “Nothing personal.” Except, maybe it is. I walk behind her, hold the phone to her ear, my gun to her temple. “Answer.”

She squeezes her arm tighter, but says, “Hello?” Ghost kneels beside Ren, lifting his wrist to pocket his watch and double check his pulse. “No,” Jude says, voice going steady. She stands still, and her blood starts to spill on to the floor. “No, everything is fine,” she tells them. She answers their questions stoically, then says goodbye. I hang up and toss it to the blanket pile on the floor. Not a moment later, Jude’s knees give out and I catch her before she can hit the ground. Ghost glances at us, before flicking the jutting end of the arrow. Stimpy is still alive, but not enough to pull info from.

Ghost checks his wallet and I shoot him to stop that gurgling noise he’s making. It stops, so I tuck my gun to the waistband of my jeans before hoisting Jude up, not unlike the night we met, except this time, she’s out cold.

A while later, I’m sitting in Dain’s tattoo garage, on the stool set in front of the tattoo chair Jude is currently seated on, still unconscious. Ghost had stayed back for damage control and Valerian is currently dabbing Jude’s face with a wet rag having already tended to her flesh wound earlier.

“She’s pretty,” he says. I scowl when he leans in and pecks her lips. “I hope her body stays intact when you kill her,” he continues his creepy perusal, running the rag along her cheekbone. He takes a step back, “We just have to wait until she’s up, now.”

“Fuck that,” I get up, annoyed with Valerian, annoyed with Madoc, annoyed with Jude, and Locke and Ren and Stimpy, and my patience has worn thin. I tap her cheek, softly then a little harder. Admittedly, she looks much better when the color blooms in her pale cheeks. I go to try a harder tap, but her hands reach up and clasp my wrists just as her eyes flash open.

My lips twitch. “Morning, Jude,” I tell her.

She blinks, her hold on me loosening, brows furrowing, “Cardan…?”

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Masterlist

#Dark AU #jude duarte #cardan greenbriar #jude x cardan #jurdan #jurdan smut #jurdan au #jurdan fanfic #lots of differences b/t this and version 1's ch2 #the folk of the air #tfota au #tfota fanfic #tfota #tcp #twk #tqon #the cruel prince #the wicked king #the queen of nothing

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