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mojoflower · 7 years

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Magical/Mage/Spark Stiles fic recs (90%Sterek, 5%Steter)

A Moving Sea Between the Shores by foxtricks (knightofbows) M. 26k. Complete. They're so fucked. They fucked up so bad. And it's all Stiles' fault." // Love one another but make not a bond of love: let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls." - Khalil Gibran

What delicious torture and pain and mistakes and regret and fear and suspense, unf. Stiles, it turns out, is quite a powerful mage, but he DOES make a small miscalculation... which very nearly leads to the deaths of the whole pack, to his imprisonment and torture. If only he and Derek had Bonded first, they might not have fallen to this point. But they hadn't....

Chapters alternate from what leads up to the Fuck Up and what follows. Derek is a good Alpha, Stiles is a good Emissary, but each thinks the other deserves better than what they could offer. Fully satisfying ending with sufficient comfort.

Dream of Life Again by BarlowGirl E. 18k. Complete. “You better be ready,” Lydia says as she cleans dirt out from under her nails with an antiseptic wipe. Stiles can smell the lemon scent even from where he stands a few feet away. She’s probably going to end up covered in blood in a few moments, but she likes to be in control in any way she can, so he doesn’t tease her about this. “It’s time to start.” // “I’m ready,” Stiles says and he’s pretty sure it’s not even a lie. Hopefully. // Scott, Stiles, and Lydia each sit at one point of the triskelion that Lydia’s drawn on the tarp. The center is a tight knot of some language Stiles had never even heard of before this, written in ink in tiny writing. It’s beautiful and also makes him slightly nauseated. Lydia makes both cuts, so the blood drops from Stiles’ arm and Scott’s, too, into the center of the triskelion. There’s wolfsbane on Scott’s knife, not enough to make him sick, but enough to keep him from healing too quickly. // It’s a surprisingly simple thing, after that, for what they’re doing. Blood, a few words, and a little magic. // Just those things, and, for the first time in three years, Laura Hale gasps in a breath. // Or: Resurrected Laura!!!

What an interesting story. It felt strangely... clinical?... distant, maybe. Stiles is very removed from everyone, and there's alot of teasing in the beginning as to why (we never DO learn the full story there). Any road, Stiles has a connection to some veerry powerful magic, but doesn't really want to think about it too much, much less admit it. Meanwhile, he continues with his distant-yet-close relationship with the pack, and his strange dance with Derek, and just. It was very interesting.

Such Things Don't Bear Repeating by Allizane E. 25k. Complete. A wizard, a wolf, and a boy. Or: spells and magic can never truly substitute for strength. (Harry Potter AU, in triplicate.)

This was beautiful, flowed like poetry, kind of. Three parts, three points of view, and we slowly watch Stiles grow, watch his powers develop. I never did figure out what he was supposed to be: he's a bit sociopathic, but has every reason to be (he's missing his tongue when Deaton first finds him.) I probably wouldn't have read it if I'd noticed the dark!Stiles tag, but the story didn't really come across that way. More wild!Stiles, and the future's wide open. ******* So Derek takes the twisted threads of blood and bone and fire (because they’d all tasted like ash to the wolf, like someone was already burning them up), he takes them and ties the loose ends to Stiles, because what else is there to do?

The Long Way Round by exclamation E. 180k. Complete. A magical accident sends Stiles back in time. Now he's stuck in New York, living with Derek and Laura, and the only way to get back to his own time is to learn to use magic. Meanwhile, he must figure out how much he can tell them about their future. Can he warn them about the dangers they face? Can he change his own past?And can he trust the creature known as Bookworm, who seems to know him better than he knows himself?

oh. my. fucking. god.

this is astonishing.

The one where Stiles is MAGIC, whoa, that is such a focus, and he's powerful, and you get the learning montage and everything. (He's also the ouroboros, which explains how he got sent back in time to hang out with Derek and Laura when they're living in New York.) The one with the dragon, Bookworm, and the magic shop, and the accidental coven, and the vengence ghost, and where Derek is a dancer at a club (lol) and ALL THE GOOD THINGS.

i am addicted to death (so remind me what it’s like to live) by cywscross T. 18k. 1/2 but it reads like it’s complete. Stiles is sixteen years old. He has already died seventy-eight times.

Holy shit. (This says 1/2, but it's tight and complete, no worries.)

Magic Marker by Batwynn G. 3k. Complete. Look, just because he’s magical, doesn’t mean Stiles has to be an adult, right? // Where Scott keeps quoting Spider Man when he comes in the room, his dad keeps getting that pinched look around his eyes when he accidentally turns the microwave into a portal to another timeline, Lydia has stopped wasting her breath by heaving great, disappointed sighs at him, and Derek… Derek tells him to get it out of his system somewhere not here. Which is actually pretty nice, for someone with such judgmental eyebrows.

I would SO love to get a bigger peek into this world, heh.

In Which Stiles is Secretly Magic by apocryphal T. 27k. Complete. All Stiles wants from life is to learn to control his magic, keep his grades up, and not die horribly while saving Beacon Hills from supernatural threats. It's all going pretty well until Derek Hale, werewolf extraordinaire, has to go and ask him on a date. That asshole.

lol... stiles is a hoot.

Attach me to your world by artisan447 E. 27k. Complete. Turns out Stiles is magic. He's as surprised about that as anyone.

Sweet, sexy and intense: everything you want a surprise bonding fledgling magic fic to be.

Growing Up, Growing Strong by cywscross T. 10k. Complete. Stiles is adopted by the Hales.

Lovely series of snapshots. Stiles at 10 saves the Hales, but loses his dad, and Talia takes him in, but it's Peter he attaches to. There's selective mutism, slow integration, kidnapping, self-rescue, discovery of magic (spark), and he's 16 in the end, but I think the rating could have easily remained a G. (We'll have to use our imaginations for the rest.)

Red Witch by rootbeer T. 34k. Complete. The red hair of a banshee. The red eyes of an alpha. The red hoodie of a mage. The red of fire burning.Derek Hale has been a prisoner to the hunters since they burned his family alive. But now someone has come to save him: skinny, defenseless Stiles--147 lbs of skin and fragile bones. Turns out, sarcasm isn't his only weapon.

Ah, this hit the spot. Derek's a mess, poor baby, he's spent years locked in a cell in isolation being taunted by Kate when Stiles shows up as a captive in the next cell. It's about everything you'd want. (I love the protective fire around Derek, it's perfect.) Stiles is a BAMF, Derek is a beta. And those stories about the Red Witch and his/her companions? Not just fairy tales.

Children's Tales by artemis69 G. 5k. Complete. Be careful, little girl. // Don’t go causing troubles in Beacon Hills, because the Hales live there, little girl. // Keep away from Beacon Hills, little girl, or the Hales will destroy you. // --Or: In a world where the Hales are alive and the protectors of the town of Beacon Hills, the humans politely fake ignorance of their not-really-human status, and they all live happily ever after. // Then Kate comes in. // Well. // Tries to.

How much did I love this story, omg, it's kind of hilarious: Kate (POV) goes Hale-hunting and is thwarted at EVERY TURN because the whole damn town knows who she is, and who Derek is, and the character descriptions are so funny: "The annoying other kid is still there and both of them are mowing the lawn of a little white house. Hale is very focused, working methodically in parallel strips. His friend is running in circles around a rose bush like a rabbit on cocaine."

Inhuman History by Amazonia_8 E. 32k. 7/? Stiles doesn't remember much about what happened the night he was to be introduced to the mysterious Hale family. He knows his mother is dead, but nobody can tell him why. He thinks it might have something to do with the things that happen to him, or that he can make happen, even though he's never been able to control it. Now it's just him and his father, an invalid he must spend all his time caring for, scraping by in a run down house in a run down town, miles away from the life he once knew. // Until strange things begin to happen, starting with the great black wolf that shows up at his door and the stranger man that claims he knows his father. Claims that Stiles is in danger and that it is his duty to protect him.

Hooooly guacamole. This one is a RIDE, I'm pretty sure I only breathed once in the whole first half. Only 7 chapters written, and it looks like it'll stay that way, and the story isn't NEAR complete, but you do get to end on a very satisfying sex scene, and this author is so good that even a glimpse into this world she's building is worth the time you put in to read it. The first chapters are such a tease, with references to things like John being paralyzed and mute, and Stiles having flashing memories of 'before', and it doesn't get explained for a while (it does eventually, tho, don't worry), and wow, it's just fantastic.

The Road Less Traveled by gryvon E. 25k. Complete. Stiles doesn't want to die in a basement. No one is going to die in the Argent's basement, not if he can help it.

ALL the Stiles!whump and hurt/comfort (although the comfort for the first round of hurt is rest-of-pack rather than Derek, but it's totally emotionally satisfying. This is the one where Stiles starts practicing magic by twiddling a pencil and then gets to firebomb some ghoul-things in the cemetery.

Night Owls Early Birds by Lissadiane T. 24k. Complete. Confession: Stiles is afraid of having magic. // The Spark had been cool. It had been small, manageable. He could do some funky stuff with Mountain Ash, all with the power of belief. // And now here he is, his Spark blown wide open, apparently coming down with a fatal case of magical overload, and all that stands between him and bleeding out is a grumpy owl that looks suspiciously like a feathered version of Derek Hale. // (In which Stiles learns he's a witch, but instead of a wand and a trip to Diagon Alley, he gets blood magic, a grumpy and reluctant owl as his companion, and an accidental blood bond with Derek Hale.)

Oh. This was... really intense, I wasn't expecting that, somehow, the summary made it seem kind of funny. Stiles' magic is no fucking joke, and it LITERALLY tears him apart sometimes, like, peeling his hands inside out and crushing them kind of thing... and all the extraordinary pain that goes with it. When they say blood magic, that means there's gallons of it everywhere. Which is AMAZING, and the intensity is wonderful, don't get me wrong, it's unique among the 'Stiles discovers he is magic' stories, because it really does seem more like a curse than a gift. Steve the owl is a hoot (lol), and Derek's quiet loyalty and fierce protectiveness is lovely. It's a fantastic read, and so is its sequel.

In Which Stiles Finds He Much Prefers When Interesting Things Happen to Somebody Else by Zoom Zoom (PaperLillyWebs) T. 21k. Complete. “Finish what you start,” the skull rasps at him, making him jump. When he looks up, the skull is just as still as before.Loosely based on Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wayne Jones.

What a fun story! Stiles the apprentice is every bit of adorable, his Master Hale is a shadowy, mean kind of figure, and something's going on where none of the ends match up. The story borrows the Howl's Moving Castle world, but that's all, none of the story or characters. I love it.

How to please your house spirit by Lesatha M. 14k. Complete. Derek startled awake in the middle of the night. For a split second he didn’t know why, then as he felt a strange weight on his chest, he raised his head and looked down. And stayed speechless. // There was a tiny creature, barely the size of Derek’s whole hand, sitting on him. It had a human shape, from what Derek could see.It looked furious.

ohmygod this is infinitely adorable, Stiles is a (murderous, multitasking, shapeshifting) little shit (so is Peter) and Derek is utterly wrapped around his (occasionally) tiny finger.

Of Werewolves and Tentacles by Guede E. 173k. Complete. Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall, childhood best friends who were separated, now reunite to get to know each other again. Since Scott's a werewolf and Stiles is a new graduate of Miskatonic University (which is proving strangely attractive to Peter-Hale-shaped werewolves), they've got quite a bit to catch up on.

So glorious. A lot of fun to read, lots of action and complexity and I know basically nothing about Lovecraft, and that didn't matter at all. Stiles is great in this, very pushy, very much an asshole, and still got that old insecurity inside... which, coincidentally, is very much what Peter is like. They're a lovely match. (The fifth story introduces Derek into their dynamic, but only in the end, and, sadly, we never get the sexin' for that -- aside from some strange dreams in Part 6 -- cause it would be delicious.)

And what are the odds that I'd read two sentient house fics in the same month? (The other being the equally fabulous When sparks fly by LunaCanisLupus_22. Sentient house is in Part 5 and isn't very friendly.)

The Foul Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart by WritersAreLiars M. 35k. 6/? “Stiles. Did I just watch you sell that man a hex-bag full of crushed caffeine pills and rocks from our own parking lot?” // “I threw in some sage too.” // -Stiles may have lost his job and his place as Alan's Mastery student, but at least his former teacher had the decency to set up an introduction to Peter Hale, werewolf and necromancer. // It looked like Stiles wasn't as done forming impossible infatuations on his teachers as he thought. // (At least this time he's legal.)

Entirely delightful and unique... author creates a fantastic world and Stiles' blithe abandon of traditions works very well with Peter's scheming. Worth reading even if it's never finished.

You Only Live Once...or Twice by WonderWolf E. 33k. Complete. “Anything,” Derek’s eyes are determined, boring into Stiles’.Stiles huffs a laugh, “Careful there, big guy. Don’t want to be promising anything to every necromancer you meet. Some might ask for your soul or someth—” // “I’ll give you my soul to bring her back,” Derek says, his voice steady and strong with resolve, “if that’s what you want.” // Stiles’ mouth gapes open for a moment before his brain kicks into gear and he stutters out, “N-no, I don’t ask for that. I only ask for money.” // (Or the one in which Stiles is a necromancer who needs help stopping a rogue alpha and Derek is the solution, but at what cost?)

Interesting premise.

Red String verse by gryvon E. 13k. Completed works, incomplete series. Peter had given up hope of ever finding his soulmate until the red string on his finger leads him to a four-year-old. He's going to Hell. Or jail. Or both.

Everything about this series is perfection. How Peter is so utterly astonished and appalled at the age difference. How Stiles turns out to be tremendously and precociously magic. The sexual tension when Stiles gets tired of waiting (and Peter goes to the station to turn himself in, lol.

Those Are The Days That Bind Us by s_a_m M. 63k. Completed works, incomplete series. His father wasn’t stupid. He was an officer of the law, trained to look for patterns. He confronted Stiles about werewolves and they shouted and Stiles tried to explain but his father was so, so, so mad, more mad than Stiles had ever seen him, ever in all his life and then his father looked at him and said,“It’s like you’re not my son anymore.” // And Stiles broke.

Really good. Poor bb Stiles, life generally sucks hard. When he leaves, he has a lot of adventures and new friends that I DON'T instinctively dislike (what can I say, I'm very loyal to my OTP: I generally hate it when they split up and one of them seems to move on). There's VERY little Derek in this, even though about 50% of the story is in Beacon Hills both before and after the 7 years of running away. Maybe part 3 will have a little more Sterek. But, yeah, Stiles is badass, so that's awesome. The author writes well and the story moves quickly.

Professional Werewolf Witch by reptilianraven G. 5k. Complete. "Are you going to buy anything else?" Professional Eyebrows says and Stiles would like to buy him. A cup of coffee. On a date. // He just ends up pointing at the crate of whatever the fuck is behind Professional Eyebrows' head and says, "Uh, a box of that stuff." // P.E. turns, glances at the crate, and raises an eyebrow at Stiles. "You want a box of charmed rattlesnake tail?" God, magic is so fucking weird. // "Yeah." Stiles nods because he's making an ass out of himself. The hipster vampire browsing in the corner is not so subtly laughing at him. The sooner he leaves the better. // -The one where Derek Hale is a Professional Werewolf Witch who owns a magic shop and Stiles fails at being smooth on a regular basis.

so fucking funny

I Know Where Babies Come From, Derek by DiscontentedWinter M. 52k. Complete. Stiles finds a baby on the porch.It looks exactly like him. // Well, this is awkward.

Funny and unique and gripping (and there's one part that's simply fucking heartbreaking, god every.time. I bawl like a baby). I love this so much. It's totally one of my return-again-and-again-comfort-fics (even though there's very little that's slow-paced and domestic about it).

When sparks fly by LunaCanisLupus_22 E. 87k. Completed stories, unfinished series, but that doesn’t matter. “Derek,” Stiles thunders. “Were you ever going to tell me your house is trying to hook us up?” // Derek's head snaps up, eyes wide and scenting the evident crackle of magic in the air. // Or the one where spark!Stiles moves into an enchanted apartment block owned by a grumpy alpha and is completely oblivious to the building's efforts to matchmake them.

OH, golly, I love this, it's so funny and fabulous and unique and THE HOUSE, GOD, I LOVE THE HOUSE, it really is all up in everybody's business. Don't worry about the chapters x/? Each chapter is its own complete storyline, so feel free to jump in any time, you'll never feel like you've been left hanging. I absolutely LOVE the irreverent (and yet, very well-conceived and detailed) urban fantasy vibe. And I love every character just the way I like to.

(Just read another fic with a sentient house (fifth story) and urban fantasy tones: Of Werewolves and Tentacles by Guede, which was a delight.

Untamed by rosepetals42 T. 28k. Complete. Of course, the transfer kid gets mentioned because transfers are rare, but the news isn’t that exciting. In fact, according to Laura, no one even seems to know his first name. The only thing anyone has really figured out about him is that he’s American. And that’s not exactly hard because he obviously has an accent. // The only thing Derek really knows is that, despite other reports, he seems quiet enough, prefers to work alone, and has the most amazing shade of amber eyes that Derek has ever seen. // Not that he’s looking. Obviously. // OR: A Harry Potter AU where Stiles is a Slytherin transfer student and Derek is the grumpy Gryffindor who falls in love with him. // There are also potions, elves, and falcons involved. Oh, and illegal use of magic. Obviously.

Best. This is the best Hogwarts/Teen Wolf AU I've ever read, hands down. All the feels.

A Wild Heart's Desire by mikkimouse T. 13k. Complete. If there's one thing Stiles Stilinski knows, it's that Deputy Derek Hale absolutely Does Not Like him. The only reason Derek even tolerates him is because their kids are worryingly codependent. // So Stiles is understandably confused when a very feral Derek shows up in his backyard after a call gone wrong and proceeds to move in with him.

Aw, feral!Derek is so sweet. And so is Stiles. And both of them are hella oblivious.

A Life for a Life, Makes the Whole Wo rld Bound by augopher M. 91k. Complete. Stiles was lonely; there was no other way of putting it. The Nogitsune had left the pack a wary of him, not that they thought it had been his fault. No, they worried it would happen again. Once bitten, twice shy. // The morning after his 18th birthday, his torso was covered in mysterious green tattoos. He hadn’t been that drunk. He'd definitely remember that. Great. Something else to make him feel like a freak. Insomnia led him to his mother’s diary and a tale of how she helped an odd man once who gave her the warning, “Be careful of your wishes three." Everything clicked into place. // So...he was a djinni. He subtly changed things about himself. More muscle? Done. Better hair? Done and done. End his crippling insecurity? Done, done, done. He hid his new gift until he found himself bound to Derek. // With Deaton’s help, they translated meanings in his tattoos, but they were incomplete. A passage of his 'Rules and Regulations' was missing. Everything was fine dandy until Stiles’ new powers and penchant for mischief and karmic retribution threatened to destroy him, fracture his mind, and turn him into something which couldn’t be contained. // Could the pack save him in time, and at what price?

Court of the Bitter King by The Feels Whale (miscellea) T. 7k. Incomplete series, but that’s okay. There’s a reason Stiles refuses point-blank to take off his shirt in public. That reason would be the massive number of …somewhat illegal tattoos he’s had done over the years. // It’s not that his dad doesn’t know about the tattoos, it’s more that his dad doesn’t like to think about them. It’s a mom thing or more precisely, it’s a ‘mom’s side of the family’ thing and Stiles’ maternal relatives make his dad very, very nervous.

Interesting. Dreamy and a little surreal. Third part is unfinished, but then, so are dreams, often.

The Time Travelling Werewolf's Confused Spirit Guide by The Feels Whale (miscellea) G. 5k. Complete.

Normally you don’t imagine yourself as living in the dystopian future that hapless time travelers accidentally stumble into. // Or: that one where Stiles learns the hard way that reality is not static, time is not a river, and sometimes the way things are is not the way they were supposed to be.

Sweet and weird. And it all worked out in the end, but I'd miss asshole Derek.

Her Blood on His Bones by secondstar E. 123k. Complete. Stiles may be cursed but that doesn’t mean he’s going to lay down and die. He’s going to fight. He won’t stop, he can’t stop. If he does, they win. [Daemons, Dark Materials universe.]

Aching for you by LittleRedEmissary T. 45k. Complete. When Stiles tries to cast a protection spell on Derek and accidentally casts a spell much stronger than either of them expected, the duo has to relearn everything that they've learned about protecting the pack, because the old methods won't do anymore. With the infamous Winchesters coming to town Derek hopes that the hunters will just drive through town, but the pack has never been good that laying low.

Love this. God, Dean's an asshole. But he gets better.

Writ in Hecate's ink on willing skin by Lenore M. 6k. Complete. "As you're always so fond of pointing out, you're the alpha. When bad shit happens to you, it affects all of us. If someone wants to use your alpha mojo or your wolf force or," Stiles waves his hand, "whatever you want to call it for diabolical purposes? We need to be ready."

Beacon Hills Mysteries by miss_aphelion T. 80k. Complete. Stiles appears alone at the doors of the emergency room the morning after the full moon, covered in blood with a deep slash torn across his left side. He's suffering from hypovolemic shock and barely conscious and he won't tell anyone what happened—not his hospital appointed psychiatrist, not his father. Not even his pack. // The list of suspects is disconcertedly short. There were only seven others in the woods with Stiles that night: Derek, Scott, Boyd, Erica, Isaac, Jackson and Allison. And none of them remember the night in quite the same way.

My note for the second story: Whoa, so intense and stressful and simply amazing. Really, this whole series is the bomb. (Even with no sex!) And super!magic!Stiles like whoa.

Patterns of Intention by drunktuesdays E. 17k. Complete. Derek looked like the stuff of his deepest fantasies. His shirt was rumpled where Stiles had his hands in it, and he was breathing hard as well, chest heaving. His eyes—his eyes were glazed over and he looked stunned, like he’d been—like Stiles had—“No,” Stiles said, blood draining from his face. The word was croaky and felt like it had to be wrenched out of his chest. “God, no.”

The one where Stiles' magic is expressed verbally, and he starts to think he magically is making Derek want him back.

No spell quite like your smile by charimiel T. 29k. Complete. "I’m Stiles by the way. I’d shake your hand, but the stuff on my hands isn’t actually ink and I don’t want to subject anyone else to that.” .... Derek’s really just exuding an aura of ‘what the fuck is wrong with this guy’. Stiles gets that a lot actually.OrThe one where Stiles owns a magic shop and Derek probably regrets coming back to Beacon Hills right about now.

Cute.

From Here On by Isa_Iadel M. 97k. Completed stories, incomplete series. Stiles Stilinski hasn't been Sheriff for very long and dealing with the aftermath of the attack against the Hales ends up being far more complicated than he ever could have imagined.

Crazy good story, incredible and original world building (really, SO original), and Stiles is magic! to the max and totally wonderful protector of the town and all the characters, OCs and those well-loved, are just amazing. (Derek is underdeveloped, which is a pity, but everyone else is so riveting that it's alright.) Can't wait for the next installment.

B.S.T.P.H.T. by dornfelder E. 27k. Complete. Before Derek has the presence of mind to object, Stiles pushes the paper in his hands and makes for his jeep. “Just read it, okay?” is the last thing he says before slamming the door shut. // He starts the engine, and drives away in record time with gravel scrunching under his tires while Derek stands there dumfounded. He accelerates unusually fast, and the jeep’s back lights disappear into the night.What. The. Fuck.

dream-walker by hoars E. 5k. Complete. This is not the behavior Stiles was expecting from a werewolf he’s been dream invading. To be honest, Stiles expected more blood, bruises and begging. He was not expecting creepy Derek to go to sleep next to him.

Vision without action is just a dream. by Mynuet T. 17k. Complete. Vision without action is merely a dream. Action without vision just passes the time. Vision with action can change the world. (Joel Barker) // Stiles has never known how to leave things well enough alone. If the root of their unhappiness is Derek losing the love of his life, then that's the problem Stiles is going to fix, no matter what it takes. He probably should have realized that things never go according to plan."

Perfect!

How I Met My Werebunny by Moku T. 20k. Complete. “This is going to end in tears,” Scott told Derek while he watched the man easily lifting Stiles’ desk up with one hand and driving nails into the ceiling with the thumb of the other. “Probably mine.” // Or:When a Stiles and a Failwolf love each other very much, they’ll engage in a prank war. Basically, it's a mating ritual for dorks in love.

So precious!

Shakespeare Was a Wolf by mommymuffin Unrated. (I’d rate it an M.) 40k. (Incomplete series, but that’s fine.) Derek gets turned into a wolf by a witch. Naturally, he expects Stiles to fix it.

“To say that Stiles flailed before he hit the ground in the most spectacular display of falling down the world has ever seen would be a gross understatement.”

Spark by rispacooper M. 10k. Complete. Derek had never actually seen Stiles in his full dragon form. If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. The first time Derek had properly met Stiles, spoken with him, he’d had a hard time not reacting to the heat of him, far too reminiscent of the lick of flames at Derek’s skin. Dragons exuded heat, Derek had known that, intellectually. They might look like cold-blooded reptiles but they were creatures of fire.

Derek did not have good memories of fire. Stiles couldn’t have been expected to remember that, but it hadn’t helped that he’d focused on Derek with those impossibly wide eyes of lustrous brown and then let out of a puff of marijuana-scented breath and announced he’d take Derek instead of a sandwich.

Lord knows it would be the first time by uraneia E. 12k. Complete. Stiles is home from Berkeley for the summer, but only because he promised the pack. He'd rather not see Derek, because whatever the thing was that they were doing, they're not doing it anymore, and it sucks. // Unfortunately, he doesn't have a choice. The betas tried a magical remedy for Derek's melancholy, and now Stiles has a three-year-old who looks like Derek. Stiles doesn't know how to deal with that, and he definitely doesn't know how to tell the betas he and Derek were secret fuck buddies for a year and a half.

Another kidfic: ending has a nice twist.

Of Bananas, Babies and Buzzkills by calrissian18 T. 25k. Complete. “Are you, um—What are you doing back?” He looks as uncomfortable as Stiles feels and that’s some small consolation.“You know, the usual. Witches, I’m the highlander now, magic bananas.”

Oh, god, the one where Stiles magics up Protozooey, and he's SOO CUTE.

I was a little disappointed in the ending (little rushed), but ALL the rest of it is so delicious it's ok.

(Once in a) Blue Moon by clarkoholic, skywardsmiles E. 60k. Complete. Stiles and Derek are getting along, but they’re not a family, and they’re sure as hell not mates. Christ, they’re basically just two stupid guys who happened to get pregnant because of a full moon and sheer dumb luck.

Oh, the angst, the pining, the guilt, the blame, the anger. Total pain-fest while we watch Stiles nearly die from the burden of the pregnancy. Lovely sweet ending, of course.

A Heart is a Heavy Burden by lielabell T. 41k. Complete. In Which Stiles: is accosted by unhappy witches, becomes friends with fire demons, is rescued by darkly handsome wizards, discovers hidden inner depths, is introduced to princes, and finds true love. Though not necessarily in that order. // (Or the Howl’s Moving Castle AU fusion fic you never knew you wanted but are delighted to have.)

Hale's Moving Castle. (I need say no more.) -- not magic!Stiles, but wizard!Derek is just as good.

Haven't Forgotten My Way Home by tryslora E. 101k. Complete. Stiles walked away from Beacon Hills and never planned on coming home. Now he needs help, and there's nowhere else he can go other than back to his childhood home and the pack he left behind.

Great story: intricate, suspenseful and unique. It stands well on it's own, no need to read others in the series if you don't want to.

Stiles, why is Derek Hale passed out on our front porch? bymarguerite_26, mothlights E. 4k. Complete. Stiles doesn't hear the knock on his front door, but he figures there must have been one, because now his dad's calling out to him, "Stiles, do you know why Derek Hale just passed out on our front porch?" // Stiles freezes, carton of milk half way to his mouth. He looks around the empty room, wondering if it has any answers. Derek Hale just passed out on his front porch -- sounds like one of the signs of the coming apocalypse.

Breathe Me by mommymuffin Unrated (I’d give it T or M) 127k. Complete.

Stiles tries desperately, but the air just won’t come to him. He can’t do it himself. He needs someone. Someone to help him.

And Scott left him.

Fabulous series. Starts as a kind of one-shot, just Stiles-Derek-panic attack, but then the author, lo, encounters plot, and what a plot it is. I love this one, it's fast, doesn't stint on violence, the whole second half is one stressful situation after another, and there is Cor, the amazing wolf made out of the blood spilled between Stiles and Derek, which is a concept I haven't encountered before.

I would rate it an T or an M... there's sex, but it's not described in any detail.

Last Call by grimm E. 6k. Complete. He doesn’t come to The Beacon to pick up people. It’s precisely the reason why he doesn’t go anywhere else. People in this neighborhood know him, know he’s not interested in being hit on, which allows him to have a drink in peace. Derek knows he’s good-looking, but the type of people it attracts disgust him. At least other werewolves can smell the unfriendliness on him and stay away, but that doesn’t stop everyone. He went to a gay bar with his coworker Isaac once and it was horrifying.

Dragon's Breath by trilliath E. 56k. Complete. Between the hunters and the monsters that have interfered with life in Beacon Hills, the pack has had to learn a lot in the last few years, including Stiles teaching himself to practice magic in private. It's not exactly a secret from the pack, but it's not something he's shown much. When it comes time to put his skills to the test, Derek is the only one who finally gets to see Stiles's wild magic put to use saving Erica's life from a new threat in town. // The aftermath changes something between them, and those tenuous lines tangling them together may mean the difference between life and death for them both.

Lovely, vivid and intense.

In Sanguinem Scriptum Est by secondstar E. 31k. Complete. In order to stop a new onslaught of nightmares from plaguing him, Stiles decides to become an emissary. No longer defenseless, he begins to realize that not everything is as it seems.

Strut on a Line, its Discord and Rhyme by xiaq T, 73k.

“Carry me,” Stiles says. // “No.” // “But I’m injured.” // “You have a rash,” Derek says. “On your arm. Your feet work just fine.” // “Please?” // “No. You weigh almost as much as I do. And you ate a pound of chicken at lunch.” // "Well, yeah, but I pooped like an hour ago, so.” // “You’re disgusting.” // “Don’t play, you love me.” // I do, Derek thinks, relatively horrified. I really do.

Oh, wow, this was so fun: such a fast read, it just never lagged for a moment. Not that it's action-packed, because it isn't, but just because the story is so interesting and kept moving right along. Lots of OCs in this (Paidrag, Teagan, Walsh) and they're fully realized and wonderful. Stiles is a human adopted into a wolf pack that's been slaughtered a year earlier, and Derek and his dad are in Beacon Hills to help him recover from an extended kidnapping from demons. Both of them are young (fifteen and later sixteen), so their interactions start out innocent. Stiles is his usual self: brash and loud and weirdly confident in himself. Derek is shy and quiet. They make a good pair. Scott is the big brother who is suddenly a guardian. I pretty much loved every part of this: especially how Stiles magic just got stronger and stronger.

The Walls Are Breathing In by secondstar E. 42k. Complete. Nothing could go wrong. It was just supposed to be a safe trip to the Nemeton. But this is Beacon Hills and things are rarely that simple. Welcome to the life of Stiles Stilinski. // Or, that time that Stiles accidentally became a sorcerer against his will.

good story, and I loved the art (great colors)

Out Of Milk... by 74days M. 88k. Complete. Derek Hale moved in with the Stilinskis after acting a hero, much to Stiles distress. However, things take a turn for the strange when his arrival coincides with some strange happenings in Stiles life - that will change the course of the pack forever.

Sooooo magic!Stiles. EXCELLENT story. The angst is strong in this one...

Salutations or Something by ravingrevolution E. 155k. Complete. He needed an actual hobby outside of work where he would interact with actual people who did not live with him or talk to him through the internet or his phone. // Like yoga? His stupid mind supplied in an annoyingly accurate imitation of Scott’s voice. // Stiles sighed. // Like yoga. // “Fuck.”

"He was pretty sure that before he started doing yoga his life had not been an action movie sub-plot, but apparently things had changed. He really would have preferred to have starred in a romantic comedy, but he didn’t often get what he wanted." (Spark Stiles)

What I Did On My Summer Vacation by grimm E. 119k. Complete. There's something weird about Beacon Hills that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. The way everyone in town knows his name the day he arrives. The way they insist the melancholic howling that echoes through the forest every night is just a dog. The way his dad denies getting a dog, even though Stiles comes home to find one sprawled across his bed, some big black thing whose eyes gleam red in the right light. The way that massive oak tree out in the woods vibrates under his touch, pulsing with sickly life. // There's something weird going on in this town, and Stiles is determined to get to the bottom of it.

hope is the thing with feathers by ShanaStoryteller T. 29k. Complete. Stiles is ten when he saves the Hales from their burning home and Derek from a wolfsbane bullet, and this establishes a pattern that seem to continue indefinitely."Then he's facing a burning home, and he wraps the hood of his sweatshirt around his mouth before he pushes the door open and steps inside. There's Mr. Hale asleep - he hopes asleep - on the couch, next to - Stiles thinks that's his brother but there are so many Hales, who can keep track. He rushes over and starts shaking him, can see the rise and fall of the man's chest so he knows he's alive, but he's not waking up. // He shoves away his hood so he can shout, "Mr. Hale! You have to get up, there's a fire! Mr. Hale, get up!" Nothing, he's not even twitching, both of them taking in deep even breaths like they're having the most peaceful of rests, and Stiles is going to cry. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" // There's a moment, where all Stiles can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and not the roar of the flames or the creak of wood, then with a violent, silent pop it's all back and both of the men are gasping awake, eyes open and jumping to their feet. "

This is awesome: It starts when Stiles is ten, and he finds himself drawn int the woods in time to pull the Hales from their burning house, and much magic is used on that day, and lo, Stiles is an extremely powerful mage. For all that he's very brave and snarky, he's also very laid-back, and so he rolls with the punches and allows himself to be adopted (more or less) into the Hale clan, even tho they're very, very weird. So for the next five years, he tags along, fights the good fight, discovering new powers along the way, grows a bond with Derek (who hates words, and hates feelings and hates combining the two even worse), keeps his oldest and bestest friend Scott (who is similarly chill about the whole thing), and just blossoms before your eyes. It's fabulous. (So is the whole series.)

Beltane by DevilDoll E. 8k. Complete. "Watching Stiles heal someone has always been a little uncomfortable for Derek, like he's seeing something intimate and private that shouldn't have an audience. That's nothing compared to how it feels." This is an AU in which Stiles has magical healing powers.

Taking Leave by coyotl M. 91k. Complete. Stiles leaves. It's not like he wanted to, ever, but he had to. Sure, there were choices, always. It's just that, sometimes, all the choices were bad ones.

fucking fantastic. stiles resembles a gaiman-esque saint or a god or something, on a dubiously moral killing spree for half the story. the writing is magical and gripping, and the story moves fast: gritty and bloody and unapologetic. unique and lovely.

Didn’t See That Coming by knittersrevolt E, 84k.

Stiles leaves Beacon Hills in the dust after he catches his husband cheating on him. // He finds his way to New York where he starts working for the Hale House Nursery, accidentally adopts a werewolf baby (through no fault of his own thank-you-very-much), and somehow starts training to be an Exorcist Emissary. So, in general, life was going good. // Then he hears that demons have found their way into his hometown. Can he face his inner demons and go back to save the day?

I love this story so much, it’s such a fast and engaging ride. Plus, accidental baby acquisition, who doesn’t love that? The one where Scott's a cheating jerk so Stiles basically runs away to upstate New York and gets a job at Hale's Nursery Preschool with Laura, and after a few months finds a woman giving birth in an alley, takes her to the hospital, and comes home with her baby when she dies. Her werewolf baby (not that Stiles has any idea about that). So now Stiles is the proud single parent of baby Sam. He eventually moves in with Derek (because a hotel is no place for a newborn and Derek has an extra room). Things develop over the next few months, and then the Alpha Pack shows up and Peter starts acting suspiciously. Meanwhile, Stiles is getting magic lessons from Mee-Mee, who is a Demon Puller in addition to being the local supernatural pediatrician and druid.

They discover that a demon escaped the Alpha Pack and went to Beacon Hills -- along with Peter and the twins he kidnapped -- so Derek and Stiles have to pack up and follow it, right on the heels of his dad and Scott, who hired a private detective to find him. Beacon Hills is interesting, Stiles starts up a body shop selling (magical) creams and ointments and navigates the social waters of a town who seemed not to care that he was cheated on.

Stand Fast in Your Enchantments by DevilDoll, Rahciach E. 77k. Complete. "Stiles knew damn well what a pissed-off wolf sounded like, and every hair on the back of his neck was telling him that somewhere in this room was a very pissed-off werewolf." // An AU in which Derek is feral, Stiles is magical, and they eat a lot of fast food.

Love this one so much!

#Teen Wolf fic rec #Sterek fic rec #mage Stiles #magic Stiles #magical Stiles #fic recs #I spent WAAAYY too long on this #spark Stiles #spark stiles rec list #magic stiles rec list

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theapplesweremonitored · 7 years

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I was tagged by @dippedmoonshadow

Rules: Answer all questions, add one question of your own and tag as many people as there are questions.

1) Coke or Pepsi? Yikes, neither, they both nasty.

2) Disney or Dreamworks? Eh, either.

3) Coffee or Tea? I’m 48% coffee and 49% spite. Tea can fuck off.

4) Books or Movies? Depends, really. I tend to watch more movies than read books these days, but that’s because I read almost strictly fanfic. So, reading over watching, but movies over books.

5) Windows or Mac? Windows, good god, Mac can choke.

6) DC or Marvel? More of a Marvel fan, tbh.

7) X-Box or Playstation? XBox, I fucking hate tryna work a Playstation, but XBox One is only barely above the Playstation.

8) Dragon Age or Mass Effect? I have played neither, so Skyrim.

9) Night Owl or Early Riser? Night Owl

10) Cards or Chess? I am v bad at chess, so cards, I guess, even though I have zero poker face.

11) Chocolate or Vanilla? Hard to go wrong with vanilla, imo.

12) Vans or Converse? Neither, I prefer tennis shoes.

13) Lavellan, Trevelyan, Cadash, or Adaar? No clue what this means so I ain’t taking risks.

14) Fluff or Angst? I mean, sometimes I’m in the mood for one or the other or both, but I’m pretty much always in the mood for smut.

15) Beach or Forest? I hate sand and salt water so forest.

16) Dogs or Cats? I mean, it’s not one or the other for me, but cats require less effort, so cats. (Also, I love my kitty.)

17) Clear Skies or Rain? I mean, sometimes I just want it to pour, but generally rain comes with cold, so I’ll go with clear skies.

18) Cooking or Eating Out? Going out.

19) Spicy Food or Mild Food? I have the pickiest, whitest palate. I can’t stand any amount of spiciness.

20) Halloween/Samhain or Solstice/Yule/Christmas? I mean, theoretically, I enjoy Halloween more, but I never get to do anything for it, and at least my mom makes Christmas dinner.

21) Would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot? Like, no matter what I do? I can’t just live my life all bundled up? Yikes, okay, a little too hot please.

22) If you could have a superpower, what would it be? Changing my appearance at will.

23) Animation or Live Action? Eh, I can dig both. My favorites tend to be live-action though.

24) Paragon or Renegade? Dunno what this means, tbh.

25) Baths or Showers? Showers. Can’t overheat in a shower (or at least it takes effort to.)

26) Team Cap or Team Ironman? Team Cap.

27) Fantasy or Sci-Fi? I love both.

28) Do you have three or four favorite quotes, if so what are they?

“What whiskey and butter will not cure, there’s no cure for” Irish proverb or something

“The bushes don’t rattle if there’s no wind” rough translation of a Hungarian proverb

29) YouTube or Netflix? I don’t see why I have to choose.

30) Harry Potter or Percy Jackson? Dude, Percy Jackson, all the way.

31) When do you feel accomplished? I don’t.

32) Star Wars or Star Trek? Grew up on Star Trek. Never had even a passing interest in Star Wars until TFA.

33) Paperback Books or Hardback Books? No preference, I have both.

34) Horror or Rom-Com? Ugh, romcoms are cringey but horror movies freak me out.

35) TV Shows or Movies? Even split, really.

36) Favorite Animal? Ehhhhh, not a fair question. Right now, at this moment? Sugar gliders.

37) Favorite Genre of Music? I don’t really have one. Excluding, like, country and screamo, I like everything except the things that I don’t like.

38) Least Favorite Book? Fifty Shades of Rape and a novel called “Push” that is genuinely traumatizing.

39) Favorite Season? Probably autumn.

40) Song that’s currently stuck in your head? Last song I listened to was “Bad Things” by Camila Cabello

41) What kind of pajamas do you wear? Dude, I wear a mishmash of sweatpants, leggings, tank tops, and various actual pajama sets.

42) How many existential crises do you have on an average day? Averaged out I’d say about 0.7

43) If you can only choose one song to be played at your funeral, what would it be? “Dig It” from the Holes soundtrack.

44) Favorite theme song? “Mental Meta Metal” by Jeff Williams.

45) Harry Potter Movies or Books? Books, but as I get older, I get less and less impressed with the writing.

46) You can make your OTP become canon but you’ll forget that tumblr exists. Will you do it? Pfft, are you kidding? I’m in the shipping business for the aesthetics and sloppy makeouts, not the emotional payoff. I’m keeping tumblr, thanks.

47) One thing that annoys you the most? Stupid people. Just, like, completely sincere, self-awareness-of-a-pudding-cup stupidity.

48) Dreamcatchers or Horoscopes? Eh, I’m not really into either.

My question: 49) Web-series or podcasts?

I tag: Dude, I don’t even know 49 people. @loyle-trash @izzybutt @arirashkae @eggshellseas @rospeaks @hawthornsword @foxtricks @yogurt-gun @randomingoftherandomness

#slice of life #i was tagged

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thefoxtricks · 7 years

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ok if rereading my own writing to continue working on a fic is putting me to sleep, why the fuck would i ever think it was good enough to post? for real.

anyway, here, have some fucking smut from this thing i’m working on for @theapplesweremonitored:

Credence nods once, and there's a furrow to his brow that looks remarkably like determination. Percival smirks, guides his hand back to his waist. "You can hold me here, if you want. Or here," and he moves his hands to his hips, "or here," then to his thighs. "Anywhere you wish. I'm going to ride you, Credence, and I'm going to come so hard my limbs go weak, because you will feel so good inside me." Beneath him, Credence's cock twitches, brushing against Percival's skin as if in anticipation. He takes hold of Credence's face once more, forcing their gazes to meet. He will be so good for Credence, as gentle and kind as Credence has been with him. "If something hurts or doesn't feel good, tell me, okay? Let me know." He kisses Credence, nibbles lightly on his pouting lip. "I don't want to hurt you," Percival confesses.

"Okay," Credence chokes.

With those cool hands inching towards his hips, Percival's last tethers of restraint unravel. Credence is dazed, eyes a little glassy, face properly flushed, but Percival finds his gaze and ruthlessly captures it; Credence responds to the demand in Percival's scent--such a good alpha--and watches as Percival collects a copious amount of his slick, then uses it to smooth over the rigid flesh of Credence's cock. Credence bucks into Percival's hand, jostles him with the sudden movement.

"I'm sor--"

"Don't," Percival interrupts, growling low. "I'm glad you're eager." With an errant twist of his wrist, he follows the throbbing veins that keep his alpha hard, wets him thoroughly. Heedless of his sticky-slick hand, he takes Credence by the jaw and laves at his mouth, swallowing the soft, answering moan. He shifts his hips, spreads his knees a bit wider, and once he catches the head of Credence's cock on his rim, he adjusts once more before sinking down onto his lap.

Credence bucks again, but Percival mitigates it by rising slightly on his knees. There's a stretch and a faint burn, but it quiets the kneading, anxious thing that's burrowed beneath Percival's skin. Credence gasps and whimpers into the kiss, scrabbling fiercely at his hips--a wild animal unused to a cage--but Percival keeps kissing him, savoring the need that claws from his alpha's throat and down his own.

"Easy," Percival murmurs, not so unlike how Credence calmed him. He licks Credence's parted, panting lips, then smirks. "Easy. You'll feel better soon." He braces a hand on Credence's shoulder, then raises and falls onto his cock again. Credence groans, and Percival leans down to nibble the throat he unconsciously bares. With his free hand, he deftly unfastens the buttons of his borrowed shirt, throwing it open so he can drag blunt fingernails down those long miles of flawless skin. "Christ, you're perfect," Percival sighs. He leans back and rolls his hips, biting his lip as--just like he expected--Credence fits so well inside him. "Perfect alpha," he mutters. "So good."

#personal #writing #foxtricks writes #fanfic #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fbawtft #percival graves #credence barebone #gravebone #gredence #alpha!credence #omega!percival #abo dynamics

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thefoxtricks · 7 years

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She comes from a country I’ve never heard of; her name a short collection of letters, familiar, but rearranged, like the shoreline of her homeland. Across oceans, she says it to me, melodic and sweet, the seed of a dandelion caught on a breeze to settle half a world away. Its sound takes root in fissures I never noticed until its tentative tendrils probe wounds presumed healed. Four beats and four syllables, and my tongue becomes a warped mirror uselessly reflecting a beauty it has never previously beheld. Time and heat smooth its surface, a warm laugh like sunshine and a gentle pressure like unfurling leaves. My mouth slowly learns the shape of her name. It blooms, lovely as she beneath such nurturing, though not quite as lovely as she says it, never quite as lovely as she says it. But it’s lovely because it's her, and it’s hers, and I have the unique privilege of saying it.

#personal #foxtricks talks #foxtricks writes #foxtricks writing #whoops #waxing poetic #y i k e s #big bad crush #i'm so sorry #this is embarrassing #i'll probably regret this later

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thefoxtricks · 7 years

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Run Away with Me - Gravebone

for @eriakit with the prompt “Run Away with Me” without angst.

it’s short??

“Run away with me,” Mr. Graves breathes into the otherwise silent room.

Their skin is still tacky with sweat, their hearts somehow stampeding in sync–or so Credence thinks with his cheek against Mr. Graves’ shoulder as he has it. His hand rests on his chest, where his heart thuds steadily against his palm. They’re very in tune with one another, Credence realizes, if the equivalent push and pull of their lovemaking was any indication. It could just as easily be Mr. Graves’ magic, but Credence hopes–prays, really–that it’s them and not some external power Credence can only dream of harnessing.

It would have startled Credence–it still startles him, really, but Mr. Graves’ arm around him, the way his thumb strokes steadily against his shoulder stops him from pulling away as he might have ought. But Mr. Graves’ touch is a grounding, solid thing; a juxtaposition to the obscurus that still hums just beneath the surface of his skin, so he stays.

Truthfully, he stays for much more than the touch. Touches. How Mr. Graves kisses him keeps him there, how easily he let Credence slot into the empty spaces of his much-too-large home, his much-too-empty life. Or so Mr. Graves tells him, anyway. Credence struggles to believe Mr. Graves is anything but content with what he has–his home, his career, the colleagues that skirt the line of friends. It’s so much more than Credence had ever known, though, sometimes…

Sometimes Mr. Graves looks at him with haunted eyes, unafraid of the fragility in his gaze, of how it tries Credence’s own fragility. Sometimes, when Mr. Graves kisses him, it’s with a shivering breath and uncertainty on his lips. Sometimes, beneath Mr. Graves’ rough, calloused hands, there’s more pressure than necessary, as if Mr. Graves is testing the solidity of Credence’s form, as if Credence could collapse into mist beneath him.

And Credence very well could. It’s why MACUSA wants him, after all.

“Run away with me,” Mr. Graves repeats, but with more conviction. “My family has an estate up north. MACUSA knows of it, but they don’t know where it is. We could be safe there. We could be happy.”

Credence has never considered escape, never realized he could harbored or could summon the strength to do so. Even beneath the lashings of his very own belt in Mother’s hands, he never considered escaping. Perhaps he learned early that there was no escape. Perhaps, with the omnipresent weight of God’s judgment–her judgment, he quickly corrects–he instinctively knew the futility of escape. It nestled deep in his thoughts, made him hunch his shoulders and accept the beatings because there was no other way.

Then he met Mr. Graves.

“Credence?” Mr. Graves hedges, and there’s uncharacteristic uncertainty in his voice. He still strokes Credence’s shoulder, but he shifts so he lays on his side, facing him. With his free hand, he brushes back Credence’s hair, caresses his jaw, then gently guides his face up to meet his gaze. “Would you?” he asks.

Credence closes his eyes, weak beneath the intensity of Mr. Graves’ stare. When Mr. Graves traces the seam of his mouth, Credence licks his lips out of habit. With a soft sigh, he disentangles himself from their threaded limbs and sits up, resting his head in his hand. Mr. Graves remains lying on his back, but he touches Credence’s spine with the tips of his fingers until Credence’s shivers. “I’ve never…”

The touching stops and Credence mourns its loss.

Mr. Graves waits, patient as a stone, for him to continue. Mr. Graves is always patient with him.

“I’ve never considered it.”

With a gentle laugh, Mr. Graves said, “How could you? I’ve never mentioned the estate.”

“I meant running away, Mr. Graves.”

He hums, then says, “Surely you’ve considered it before?”

Credence shakes his head, drawing his knees closer to his chest. “Never once. Not until–not until you.”

“It doesn’t have to be now,” Mr. Graves says gently. “It doesn’t have to be tomorrow or the next day. It doesn’t have to be, Credence. I only thought–”

“–of me,” Credence finishes for him. “Yes, I know. You always think of me.”

“Guilty,” Mr. Graves admits, and Credence can almost hear the smile in his voice. Then, more somberly, he asks, “Will you think about it?”

It’s Credence’s turn to laugh, and as he does so, his melancholy evaporates. He leans back onto the bed, into Mr. Graves’ awaiting arms, and holds himself over him on his elbow. When Mr. Graves’ traces the line of his jaw, Credence leans into his hand. “You’ve given me so much to think about, I don’t know how I’ll sort through it all.”

“With time,” Mr. Graves answers easily. “And distance. Hence…” He arches a brow and Credence laughs again.

“Then, yes,” Credence declares. It’s so natural, so easy; but that’s the way of things with Mr. Graves. It’s how they’ve always been.

Mr. Graves blinked as if befuddled. “Yes?” he repeats.

“Yes, Percival,” Credence murmurs. “I’ll run away with you.”

Mr. Graves hauls him into a kiss, one Credence meets halfway, and it feels like a promise. Credence has never known hope, but as Mr. Graves guides him to lay atop him, Credence thinks he likes the taste of it.

#fantastic beasts and where to find them #fbawtft #fic #fanfic #foxtricks writes #foxtricks writing #eriakit #percival graves #credence barebone #gravebone #fluff #fantastic_nonsense

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thefoxtricks · 7 years

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Sororis

the beginning of a thing for @yogurt-gun. originally meant as a joke, but then shit got Real™.

also available on ao3.

The small bell above the front door rang at just the right pitch for Percival to hear even over the whirring motor of the mixer. He turns it off, pausing only the half-second needed to know the customer had service, then returns to whipping the cheesecake icing needed for the next day’s case displays. The blades disappear in the thick confection, and Percival leaves the standing mixer to busy himself with checking some dough left to rise.

“Mr. Graves?” comes Queenie’s cheery chirp. “We have a customer looking for a something special. Any recommendations?” The way she bites the corner of her lip is all the warning Percival needs to recognize the trap for what it is. After all, the whole point of his business arrangement with the Goldstein sisters was for him to do his thing—baking—while they handle other things—people. In the few years they’d worked together, he was only ever summoned as the owner to handle particularly rowdy customers. Though, were he honest with himself, he’s often customer-facing when Queenie and Tina are swarmed by customers, which happened with horrifying regularity. Still, he didn’t like it, and he was never called upon for recommendations.

“Just offer one of the filled cupcakes or something,” Percival mutters, waving his hand dismissively. “They sell the best. You know this.”

“Oh, I think this requires a more personal touch. I’m sure you can spare a moment.” Her eyebrow raises in that suggestive way, and Percival, not for the first time, questions the decisions made by his past self. The one who, somehow, thought it was a good idea to leave a perfectly stable career with a sizable retirement package in favor of opening a bakery, of all things, with one of his former subordinates and her sister.

Heaving a put-upon sigh, Percival wipes his hands on his apron, then swivels between the various metal tables and tray stacks to approach the storefront. He doesn’t bother making himself presentable—this isn’t a scheduled meeting with a bride-to-be or an indulgent mother—and he wants to return to work as quickly as possible. He does, however, soften his expression, feigning an interest and concern customers typically expect.

Feigning morphs into genuine joy when he realizes which customer it is that needs the recommendation.

“Credence,” Percival says, the levity in his voice shockingly authentic. He’s relieved.

“Mr. Graves,” he answers, his smile small. “I’m glad you’d see me.” His hair has grown out since the last Percival laid eyes on him—well over his ears and down nearly past his jaw—and has it really been that long since Credence has visited the bakery? Surely not. Though he seems thinner, cheeks and jaw sharper than Percival remembers, the quiet burden that always weighed upon Credence is absent. He looks good—cleaner, more collected, his clothes a little less worn. He looks happy, and Percival has rarely ever seen him so.

Though his achingly sweet smile—the only payment Credence could ever offer in exchange for the goods Percival frequently slipped him—is a thing Percival keeps close to his own cold, wounded heart. Even then, Percival is hard pressed to believe those smiles were truly happy. Perhaps relieved. Perhaps grateful. Always on behalf of a younger sister who wouldn’t go hungry that night.

Percival glances worriedly towards the front door. Beside him, Queenie has mysteriously disappeared. The store is strangely vacant. “Is your mother waiting on you?” he asks, reaching for the case where their signature bread, still warm, sits. He takes a bag, prepared to quickly fill a regular order, and adds, “Had I known, I would have—”

“My mother isn’t an issue anymore,” Credence says quietly. He doesn’t move to stop Percival from preparing the bread, though, so Percival slides it into the bag before tightly cinching it closed with a tie.

A radical evangelical, Mary Lou Barebone parented her children with an iron fist, if it could even be called parenting. And though the truth of the statement is hard for Percival to accept, he doesn’t question Credence’s sincerity. Despite the comfort this should bring, all Percival can think of is that fateful day Mary Lou had made the mistake of reprimanding Credence in Percival’s presence.

Percival still doesn’t know what trespass Credence had committed. In all the months the Barebones had patroned Sororis, whether alone or with his family, Credence had been perfectly courteous. Manners minded and respect doled out in waves of gratitude for even the most meager of kindness. Soft spoken and humble, Percival had been immediately charmed. But that day, something happened in his bakery, something he cannot name because he didn’t see it, that summoned the vengeful harpy’s wrath from the blackened pit where, maybe, Mary Lou had once had compassion.

One moment, Percival and Tina were gathering that week’s order for the Barebones, the next, the smack of Mary Lou’s flattened knuckles against Credence’s face halted them.

Despite the tentatively superficial relationship Percival had established with Credence over his many visits to collect bread at his mother’s behest, despite how they were very nearly strangers to one another no matter the pleasantries and anecdotes they exchanged in passing, Percival did not abide violence of any kind in his establishment. He launched himself over the counter, half-packaged goods forgotten, and shoved himself between Mary Lou and Credence before the woman could finish raising her hand for a second strike. When she swung, committed, Percival grabbed her by the wrist.

The other children congregated along the far wall of the store, well behind their mother. Behind him, Percival heard Credence’s quiet gasp.

“Release me, you brute,” Mary Lou snapped.

Percival snarled in answer, “Don’t raise your hand to him in my store.” He did release her after that, shoving hard for her to stumble the few steps back to further distance her from Credence.

“You’ve no right to tell me how to raise my child.”

“But I have every right to tell you how to behave in my store.”

She left quickly with the other children in tow; terrified ducklings following their ruffled, peacocking mother. Credence stayed behind. When Percival finally turned to him, sure Mary Lou wouldn’t return anytime soon, he found him shaking. He offered his couch for Credence to take for the night, and Credence didn’t refuse him.

The next time Percival saw Credence—nearly a week later—he was beaten worse than before. With hands bleeding from a lashing, a painful twitch in his jaw from other wounds Percival couldn’t see, he came into Sororis and placed the Barebones’ regular order. He only fleetingly met Percival’s gaze and muttered an airy thanks when Tina handed him his purchase.

“She did that because of you,” Tina told Percival, once Credence had left. “To show you.”

And Percival knew. He retreated to the kitchen more often than not after that.

But now Credence stands before him with a spine straighter than he’s ever seen it, and a shy joy in his eyes and smile.

“That’s…good,” Percival manages. “That’s very good. I’m glad to hear it.” He looks away from Credence’s dark, glittering eyes and busies himself with tidying up a few of the display cases.

He doesn’t know…he knows Credence was beaten because of him, because of his interference. But he also knows that, before the confrontation with his mother, Credence lingered in the store. Pervical remembers how Credence would find a seat tucked away from customer traffic and watch him work, piping doves onto three tier cakes or flowers onto cupcakes. He knows these things, yet he doesn’t know why Credence is there now or why Queenie vanished or why Tina is tardy for her shift.

Credence hovers near the display case Percival sporadically rearranges. Strawberry tarts, cut and layered like a confectionery mandala. He stands on his toes to lean as close as possible without touching the crystal clear glass. “They’re lovely,” he says, a lilt of awe in his soft voice.

“Have you tried them before?”

His small smile becomes weighted with sadness at the corners. “Never had the pleasure.”

Percival impulsively grabs one nearest him and presents it to Credence.

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Sure you can,” Percival pushes.

Credence takes the tart, and his pale cheeks flush to match the hearts of the strawberries. “You’re very kind, Mr. Graves.”

Percival shrugs. “I’ve a whole case of them. It’s no trouble.” Though he tries to go to task organizing and reorganizing Sororis’ stock for the day, he can’t help how he watches Credence eat the tart: how his eyes flutter closed in something like bliss, how the tip of his tongue sweeps his plush bottom lip, how he brings a knuckle to catch the cream that at the corner of his mouth. “Good?” Percival ventures.

“Divine,” Credence answers. “Though—” He pops the remaining bite of tart into his mouth so casually Percival nearly knocks over a cupcake display tier. He covers his mouth while he chews with the back of his hand, and Percival can see the pink scars crossing his palms. After he swallows, Credence continues, “—I wasn’t referring entirely to the tart.”

Percival arches an eyebrow.

“Regarding your kindness,” he clarifies.

Percival nods, but remains silent.

“I don’t remember ever properly thanking you.”

He doesn’t have to ask.

The morning after he’d invited Credence to his couch, he found him curled up beneath the thick woolen blanket as comfortable as a cat, shoulders and limbs finally free of Mary Lou’s burdensome presence. Percival isn’t romantic, but there was something aesthetically pleasing about how the sunlight filtered through the blinds to bequeath unto Credence with the only stripes he should ever wear.

He brewed Credence artisan coffee that morning, drawing a cat with foam as easily as he drew birds with icing. It pulled a laugh from Credence, who proceeded to sip as carefully as he could to preserve the image. Percival cooked a hardy and savory breakfast for Credence, pulling recipes from when Mother spoiled him during holiday breaks from university. And when Credence reluctantly departed near noon, he did so with a daring, light kiss to Percival’s coffee-warm lips; then left Percival wondering if anything he did made a difference.

The vicious marks freshly marring Credence’s ivory skin a week later told him it hadn’t.

Percival asks anyway: “For what?”

Pursing his lips, Credence recites, “But a certain Samaritan, as he journeyed, came where he was: and when he saw him, he had compassion on him. And went to him, and bound up his wounds, pouring in oil and wine, and set him on his own beast, and brought him to an inn, and took care of him.” When Percival frowns, Credence says, “Luke 10:33 and 34.” In the face of Percival’s continued silence, Credence adds, “The Good Samaritan?”

“I didn’t bind up your wounds, Credence,” Percival sighs. “I made things worse for you.”

Credence scoffs, and it’s a sound Percival never imagined him capable of making. The barest curling of his lip, a near snarl, is also quite at odds with the Credence Percival thought he knew. It surprises him, but he likes it. “Oh, you think you had something to do with that?”

“I know I had something to do with it. If I hadn’t—”

His laugh is sardonic, a perfect, poignant juxtaposition to the light melody that had filled Percival’s kitchen the one morning they had together. It’s so severely jarring, in fact, that Percival’s heart aches at the sound. Credence says, “If you hadn’t intervened, true, she may not have beaten me quite so bad once I’d returned home, but I also wouldn’t ultimately be standing here, trying to thank you.” With a soft gaze and a gentle smile, Credence continues, “I’m not with my mother anymore, Mr. Graves.”

“Yes. You’ve said that.” He wipes his hands on his apron absently.

“I left with my younger sister shortly after…all that.”

“The little blonde one? Modesty, right?”

“Mm. We found a couple seeking a child to brighten their lives. She’s happy and cared for. I couldn’t ask for more.”

“We?”

Credence tilts his head curiously, then his eyes widen with something that looks like horror. It alarms Percival, and he braces himself for some sort of outburst. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You don’t know.”

“Clearly, Credence,” Percival drawls. “Do you intend to inform me?”

“Ms. Goldstein was supposed to…tell you…” Credence’s former confidence abandons him as quick as a flock of spooked pigeons, and he sags like a puppet with cut strings. He takes a step back, and then another, as if he’s made a terrible mistake and has no idea how to fix it.

This is more akin to the Credence Percival remembers, though he finds he doesn’t much like it.

After a beat of hesitation, Percival asks, “Which one?”

“Tina.”

Who still hasn’t arrived for her shift.

The small muscles beneath Percival’s left eye twitch faintly as his annoyance quickly swells into outright anger. “Well,” he says, carefully, “as it seems she’s failed to tell me something incredibly important, I’d appreciate it if you could perhaps enlighten me in her stead.”

Credence chews his lip until it swells into a slight pout and shoves his hands into the shallow pockets of his thin jacket. “Modesty’s new family,” he starts. “They let me stay with them for a while, so I wouldn’t have to go back to mother, but I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

“You need a place to stay,” and Percival could kick himself for how much it sounds like a statement instead of a question.

“I need a job, Mr. Graves,” Credence quickly corrects.

This…surprises Percival. It must show on his face, because Credence flushes as if he’s spent a day along the shore. Percival straightens and abandons all pretense of rearranging pastries to, instead, fold his arms and quirk a smile.

Still, Credence drudges up what courage he can and forges forth: “With you, Mr. Graves. For you, I mean. I want to work for you.”

“But do you have a place to stay?” Percival asks.

“That’s not what I’m asking for,” Credence insists, nearly stuttering over the words.

“Fine,” Percival agrees, “but it’s what I’m asking. Do you have a place to stay?”

“After a week or two of honest work, I should be able to—”

“So no.”

Credence huffs in frustration and clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t dispute Percival’s conclusion.

“Because I still have that couch,” Percival offers quietly.

With a furrowed brow, Credence presses, “I’m not looking for a hand-out.”

“And I’m not giving you one,” Percival counters. “I’m…a Good Samaritan, say.”

Credence stares at him with abject horror for nearly five whole seconds before snorting through a failed attempt to stifle his laughter. Then, perhaps because of the absurdity, or perhaps due to relief or gratitude, Credence laughs whole-heartedly. He covers his blushing face with a quick hand; but it nearly mimics the joyous sound Percival pulled from him in his kitchen what feels like a lifetime ago, when he’d made him coffee and breakfast, just before Credence had kissed him goodbye.

Percival bites his lip and averts his gaze, trying not to smile too broadly in response.

With traces of amusement still curling the corners of his mouth, Credence asks, “Will you hire me, Mr. Graves?”

“Of course.”

“May I sleep on your couch, Mr. Graves?”

Whether Credence knows it or not, the question is tortuously sweet for Percival. It takes him two full heartbeats to reregulate how his pulse spikes before he answers, “Yes.”

“When will I start?”

The door to the back kitchen opens suddenly. It slams into the wall with a loud bang that startles both Percival and Credence.

“I’M SORRY! SORRY! I KNOW I’M LATE!”

Tina surges past Percival while still tying an apron around her waist. Her short hair is pulled back into a messy tail, and she immediately grabs a hanging clipboard with the day’s itinerary. She doesn’t pay the pair of them much mind until the silence left in the wake of her whirlwind arrival becomes suffocating.

“What?” she asks.

Smirking, Percival looks to Credence and says, “Now that Tina’s finally here to cover the front counter, come into the back. We’ll get started now.”

#harry potter #hp #fantasic beasts and where to find them #fbawtft #fic #fanfic #percival graves #credence barebone #gravebone #queenie goldstein #tina goldstein #modern setting #bakery!au #baker!graves #baker!queenie #angsty fluff #foxtricks writing #foxtricks writes

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thefoxtricks · 7 years

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Credence as Another Beast

Concept:

Graves is out of commission after being rescued from Grindelwald’s hold, and is unable to intervene when MACUSA, Newt, and Tina determine that Credence is too dangerous to be let alone. So, Newt basically takes him on as another beast in his case, another specimen to study.

Sometimes Newt uses him as a guard or attack dog, because if something happens to Newt, Credence goes into MACUSA custody where he’s likely to be killed.

Graves finds out about it once he’s recovered enough to return to work, and immediately hunts Newt down to liberate Credence; Graves is the only one who believes in his humanity. Graves and Newt battle, and when it seems like Graves will win, Credence intervenes. He’s lost a lot of himself under Newt’s care–more obscurus now than obscurial–but unlike with other threats to Newt’s life, Credence can’t eliminate Graves.

Graves incapacitates Newt while Credence hesitates, then grabs Credence apparates them away. Hidden from MACUSA and the rest of the world, Graves abandons everything he dedicated his life to, everything he suffered for, to help Credence recover his humanity.

#harry potter #hp #fantastic beasts and where to find them #fbawtft #foxtricks writes #fanfic concept #gravebone #percival graves #credence barebone #newt scamander #tina goldstein #mobile blogging

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thefoxtricks · 7 years

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ABCs of Foxtricks

Rules: Copy this post into a new text post, remove my answers and put in yours, and when you are done tag up to 10 people and also tag the person who tagged you… And most importantly, have fun!

I was tagged (lazily) by @theapplesweremonitored

a - age: old b - biggest fear: social failure c - current time: 1743 d - drink you last had: diet coke e - every day starts with: checking my phone for messages from her f - favorite song: right now it’s probably point/counterpoint by streetlight manifesto g - ghosts, are they real: maybe. who knows? i don’t. h - hometown: orlando, florida i - in love with: her; writing j - jealous of: published peers; teaching peers k - killed someone: softly, with a song l - last time you cried: YESTERDAY m - middle name: it’s a family thing n - number of siblings: 2 o - one wish: mental and financial stability p - person you last called/texted: her. q - questions you’re always asked: "can you edit my book?” r - reasons to smile: her. my puppers. tasty food. positive reactions to my writing. writing. flowers. s - song last sang: closing time t - time you woke up: 0900, then 1300 u - underwear color: blue v - vacation destination: the balkans. w - worst habit: biting my lip when nervous; forgetting to eat x - x-rays you’ve had: wrist, ankle, leg, knee y - your favorite food: homemade mac ‘n cheese z - zodiac sign: aquarius

#tag game #tag meme #get to know foxtricks #fun stuff #survey thing

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thefoxtricks · 8 years

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Too Good (5/?)

Spark doesn’t remember the details of their rescue–all he knows for sure is that the plan he’d put in place with his uncle worked to safely extract he and Go. His recollection is riddled with bellowed orders, pain, and fuzzy, vague images of Balto, Stormy, and Rudy. At some point between Zapdos’ descent and their rescue, he had succumbed to shock.

Or so his nurse told him.

He watches her, only mildly interested in the vitals she takes from the various machines attached to him. It’s the IV he considers a true tether, the needle taped securely into the back of his hand. With limbs made of lead, he forces himself into a seated position and grits his teeth as the movement pulls at the countless lines of stitches that stripe his hips and thighs–the painful tugging the only reason he’s even aware of them. It’s not as if the nurse has offered him a wealth of information.

“You’ll want to rest,” the nurse scolds him without a glance. “You’ve only just woken up.”

And upon waking up, he recognized his suite in one of his many electric gyms. Though, truth be told, his personal quarters in his gyms were all styled the same, so he couldn’t be sure where, exactly he was. He’d arranged for at least three different safe-houses for post-extraction recovery.

“I need to see Go,” Spark says.

“He’s unconscious.”

“I need to be with him.”

“You need to rest.”

Spark looks away from the nurse as his uncle strides into the room, and his eyebrows raise in surprise. “Uncle Taran.”

“How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

“A little like death?” Spark offers with a weak laugh. He sobers quickly. “But I can’t stay here.”

“You have to,” Lt. Surge says, a note of regret in his voice. “Your wounds aren’t fatal, but they are severe. You should limit your movement as much as possible and try to sleep.”

“Where are my pokemon?”

“At the gym’s Pokemon Center. They’re okay. The pikachu was pretty battered, but he didn’t fuss about the pokeball and should be right as rain in a day or two.”

Spark should be relieved, and a small part of him is, but anxiety claws at his throat with being parted from Go. He couldn’t abide by it–not after how closely he came to losing him. “Uncle, I need to–”

“Your boyfriend needs rest, too, Spark,” Lt. Surge says. “More than you, actually. He almost didn’t make during travel.”

Spark hisses through the dread swooping deep in his gut. Instead of dwelling how Go had nearly died while he was clearly incapacitated, he uses it to further his own cause. “I need to be with him. Clearly you can understand that, if his state is so fragile.”

“Honestly, kid? You have bigger things to worry about.” Lt. Surge folds his arms across his chest and fixes Spark with a pained expression of grim disappointment, the kind Spark received just before being punished.

Shaking his head, Spark mutters, “Nothing’s more important than Go.” To the nurse, he gestures to the IV and says, “Get this thing out of my hand. I’m going to him.”

“Spark, please,” Lt. Surge says. “Hear me out before you go rushing off, okay? I won’t keep you if you don’t want to be kept, but you need to hear this.”

“What?” Spark growls. The nurse, much to his delighted surprise, heeds his order and removes his IV. He glances to how she bandages his hand in passing before turning his full focus to his uncle.

Sighing, Lt. Surge says, “Your mission…”

“What about it?”

“It wasn’t sanctioned.”

Spark answers, “It wasn’t. But I told you that.”

“You told me it was unorthodox.”

Spark shrugs.

“You said it was outside of regulation.”

“Neither of those are untrue,” Spark grumbles.

“Candela and Blanche never approved it,” Lt. Surge barks. “Your Birds never agreed upon it.”

He doesn’t flinch beneath the accusation, but Spark does bite his lip. He shrugs again. “I don’t care,” he answers honestly. “Based on his injuries and how they were torturing him, Go would have been dead by the time the Academy finally did something about his disappearance. I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

“You’re going to have to answer for this, Spark,” and his uncle sounds hurt. His uncle sounds scared. “Did you even consider the consequences?”

“Of course I did,” Spark retorts. He struggles to find the void of apathy he so easily tapped with the rifle in his hands, but he can’t find it. He’s baffled by how little downing targets fazed him, yet his uncle’s glassy eyes and wavering voice left him quaking with some remnant of childhood fear. A disappointment yet again. Spark’s cheeks flush, but he averts his gaze to spare his uncle the sight.

“I can’t protect you from this.”

“I don’t want you to,” Spark murmurs. He can’t take it anymore. He can’t take how much his uncle loves him, despite how much shame and dishonor he’s brought upon his legacy, the legacy of his grandfather, the legacy of Team Instinct. He knows. He knows. “I need to see Go.”

###

Making his way from his Leader’s suite to towards the guest wing of the gym is a long, painful trek. The tentacruel raked his hips and thighs deep and thorough, and the stitching needed to hold his tattered flesh together tugs uncomfortably with each stiff step he takes. He limps mostly, unable to particularly favor either leg. He’s in too much pain for his usual black pants, leather with a rubber insulating layer, but a pair of soft cotton sleep pants accommodate the layers of bandages covering his wounds and his dignity.

Two of the gym’s top lieutenants flank him, trained by Lt. Surge and posted to Spark’s command. They informally debrief Go’s rescue–the five Rocket members killed at Spark’s hand, the orphaned pokemon, the recovered stolen eggs, what little information Red revealed about Rocket’s motives. The lieutenants are efficient and only take from Spark’s time what is absolutely necessary. They update him on the status of his pokemon and inform him Zapdos is in his roost. When they stand outside of Go’s temporary quarters, they ask if Spark needs anything else.

Spark hesitates before saying, “No one enters the gym without my permission. Absolutely no one. Set up a defensive perimeter to see it carried out.” He doesn’t know if word has reached Blanche or Candela yet, but they’ve surely noticed Zapdos’ absence. He isn’t ready to confront them. Not yet.

“Is that all, sir?”

“Yes,” Spark says. “Dismissed.”

They leave him alone in the hallway, and Spark takes a deep breath. It feels like his heart is slamming against his rib cage and sinking into the pit of his stomach in equal measure. It’s adrenaline and dehydration and fatigue wrapped in compact package, bowed with general anxiety; a weight that pushes against the back of his throat and unsettles his stomach. But just beyond the door–he places his palm apprehensively against its surface–is the one person who always quells his unease. He knocks.

“Yeah?”

Spark’s knees nearly buckle with relief at Go’s muffled voice. He braces himself against the door handle for a fleeting moment before opening the latch and poking his head into the room. He musters his brightest, most confident smile for Go. “Hey. Mind if I come in?” But he enters without a formal invitation, quietly closing the door behind him.

Go looks better–far better, Spark notes–when he isn’t covered in blood. The unwelcome image rises from Spark’s memory and supersedes the present with disturbing clarity. Spark blinks to clear his head and vision. Go is covered in bandages, not blood, and what of his body isn’t bandaged is bruised. The beating he’d endured at Rocket’s hands is clear with every mark on him, but he’s conscious, he’s alert, and though it wavers, he smiles for Spark. “Hey,” he answers. “I was wondering where you were.”

He points over his shoulder with his thumb. “They had me confined to bed rest for a hot minute, but…” Spark lets the thought hang and shrugs. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come to you sooner.”

“No worries,” Go says. He gestures to the chair at his bedside, far better than anything the Academy Infirmary offers to patients’ guests. “Take a seat, if you want. Stay awhile.”

Spark bites his lip to suppress a smile, but his cheeks warm and there’s little he can do for it. Of course Spark recognizes those innocuous words used against him–as if anything from that day would escape his memory. If the widening of his grin is any indication, Go notices. Spark shuffles to the chair and unabashedly pushes it as close as possible to Go’s bedside. He sits with only the faintest grimace.

Frowning, Go says, “Maybe you should have stayed in bed.”

Spark shakes his head. “I had to see you.”

Go huffs. “You really didn’t. This is an electric gym. I’m sure the staff could have told you how I was doing?”

When he drops his gaze to Go’s limp hand, he sees it’s wrapped with gauze and realizes Go’s feet are probably the same–points of expulsion for electric current. Spark’s own hands are calloused and scarred from frequent shocks and burns over his lifetime, but he’d never sustained an electrocution as Go had. Carefully, he slides his hand beneath Go’s so their palms touch, and he loosely laces their fingers. “It’s not the same,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry you’re hurt.”

“I’m sorry you’re hurt,” Go counters. “You weren’t supposed to come for me. They didn’t even want you and now you’re–” He waves his free hand vaguely in Spark’s direction. Though Spark feels like he’s been through Hell and back, his most serious injuries are mostly covered by his clothes. “You shouldn’t have come,” he adds, weakly.

It’s an attempt at reason when Spark says, “Candela wouldn’t have been successful had she been the one to find you. She searched, sure, but she wasn’t very successful with that, either.” He encases Go’s hand within his own, running his thumb lightly over the rough gauze. He studies where they touch when he adds, “I’m glad it was me.”

Go murmurs, “I’m glad it was you, too.” He wriggles his hand from Spark’s hold, then traces the edge of Spark’s jaw with his fingertips before cupping his cheek. Spark leans into it and kisses Go’s palm, then rests his unoccupied hand atop the blanket over Go’s hip. “I know my sister would give anything and everything to keep me safe, but I also know she–” He swallows and hesitates, but Spark patiently waits him out. “–they would have killed she and I both. They had a good plan. I’m glad you fucked it up for them.”

Spark huffs a weak laugh, but Go doesn’t move his hand, so Spark indulges in the touch. Their time together is usually so fleeting, Spark feels like a thief for stealing these moments when they’re both so weak. How Go traces his cheek with an absent thumb has Spark flushing bright and hot, and he hums through the flood of embarrassment. Go has a way of flustering him he hasn’t experienced in a long time.

“How’s Rudy?” Go asks, moving his hand up and into Spark’s hair.

His eyes slip closed as Go combs through his unruly locks. The casual intimacy soothes something clawing within him. Spark answers, “Weak, but recovering. I’m told he should be one hundred percent in a day or two.”

“Will you stay with me until he’s healed? It’s, um–” Go flushes and drops his gaze. “It’s really quiet here and–” He tries to pull his hand away, but Spark catches it gently before he fully retreats.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to.”

Still unable to meet Spark’s gaze, Go says, “Then spend your bed rest here.” He shifts to make room for Spark beside him–the bed is much larger than the standard infirmary fare–and pulls the blanket down in invitation.

“My suite’s more comfortable. I could have you–”

“Spark,” Go interrupts. He snaps up his gaze and fixes Spark with flat annoyance. “Get in the damn bed.”

Laughing sweetly, Spark obeys.

###

Their wounds leave them shifting in search of comfortable positions, but they do eventually settle. Go presses his face against Spark’s throat and curls as close to him as he dares in his embrace, draping an arm across his stomach and entwining their ankles. With his head pillowed along Spark’s shoulder and bicep, Spark twirls the soft strands of Go’s hair between his fingers, idly petting him while chasing illusive sleep; with his free hand, he just clutches Go’s shirt, afraid of aggravating his wounds with his touch. Spark doesn’t know how long they lay there, quietly wrapped up in each other, but Go’s breaths soon fall slow and steady against his neck, and his limbs turn sleep-heavy where they press against him. Spark’s happy for him to rest.

He sighs softly and presses his lips to Go’s forehead, relishing the absence of the metallic scent of blood when he breathes deep–just simple soap and Go. Spark’s breath stutters when he’s suddenly awash with dangerously familiar emotion, and he closes his eyes against it, against the stinging tears that come with it.

Go’s hand twitches tentatively to life where it rests along Spark’s flank, and Spark’s damp eyes snap open at the sudden movement. Go drags his fingertips, the only part of his hand free of bandages, down the length of Spark’s side, lingering apprehensively at the waistband of his pants. Instead of inching lower, Go inches up under his shirt and lazily traces abstract patterns along Spark’s skin. Spark shivers.

“You were limping when you came in,” Go murmurs, breath warm against Spark’s clavicle.

Spark hums noncommittally.

“How hurt are you, really?”

“I’m hurt,” he dodges.

Go sighs, “Because of me.”

Spark tugs Go’s shirt sharply in reprimand, then pulls him a little closer. “Don’t think like that. None of this is your fault.”

He snorts skeptically before giving up the fight. He drags his hand back to the waistband of Spark’s pants. “It was the tentacruel, wasn’t it?”

“Mm.” Spark trembles beneath even the most innocent of Go’s touches. They’re in no condition to do more than hold each other, but Spark barely manages how overwhelmed he still feels. “There are hooked claws in their suction cups. Helps them capture prey in the wild.”

“When it pulled you away,” Go starts, and his voice cracks. “When I couldn’t hold onto you–”

“Go…”

“–I thought I’d never see you again.”

His laugh is a bit forced, but Spark manages it before kissing Go’s forehead. He doesn’t mention the wetness dampening his neck and shoulder. “It’d take more than murderous Rocket tentacruel for that to happen.”

“It was a murderous Rocket tentacruel,” Go says, horror pitching his voice to a panicked height. “Spark, you could have–”

“But I didn’t,” Spark interrupts. “You could have too, but you didn’t.”

“Because of you,” Go argues. “You saved my life. And I…” He curls a bit more, smearing his tear-wet cheeks across Spark’s shirt. “I couldn’t even…”

There’s nothing Spark can say to quell his self-loathing, so he curls instinctively around him in return, offering whatever sense of protection and comfort the gesture can give.

“I want to see,” Go says suddenly, either unaware or uncaring of how his voice wavers. He tugs at Spark’s pants.

Spark sighs, heartbroken. “Go…”

“I want to see what I cost you.”

“It’s nothing that won’t heal with time. I’m fine. I promise.”

“It had hooks in its suction cups.” Stubbornly, despite what agony it must cause, Go pulls away from Spark and props himself on his elbow. His jaw twitches in discomfort, but there’s bitter determination in his eyes and in the set of his frown. “Show me what it did to you.”

“It isn’t pretty,” Spark mutters. “Especially since it’s still so fresh…”

Go scoffs and rolls his eyes hard. “Because I’ll certainly be winning beauty pageants after I’m healed.”

“I saw your injuries,” Spark explains, because it’s easier to reassure Go than it is to reassure himself. “Before they cleaned you up and bandaged you, I saw them. They’ll heal fine. You’ll have interesting scars–electricity does that, marks you with lightning–but you aren’t maimed. You’ll still be…” beautiful. Stunning. So very worth it. The raw, brutal truth of those thoughts startles Spark.

A lovely flush darkens Go’s cheeks, but Spark’s words do little to sway or distract him. “Show me what I cost you, Spark.”

When Go tugs on his pants again, Spark obligingly lifts his hips enough to sate his curiosity. He’s thoroughly bandaged, and he only lets Go expose so much of his ravaged flesh, but Go’s startled gasp is enough to drive Spark’s gaze upwards to the ceiling. He braces himself for the inevitable disgust–if it doesn’t come now, it will come later, when the stitches are removed. Unlike Go, his lacerations are long and deep, tearing muscle and, in some places, exposing bone. His injuries will scar like the stripes of an arcanine and likely never fade. There’s no philosophical beauty in the aftermath for him.

“How can you even walk?” Go asks. Spark bites his lip when he feels the faint pressure of Go tracing his bandages. “How’d you even come to me?”

“Sheer will?” he offers meekly, absently counting ceiling tiles.

“Sheer will,” Go repeats.

“I, ah–no. I have no other explanation.”

“It hurt?”

“Some.”

“Spark.”

“Hm?”

“Look at me.”

He swallows hard and chews his lip to buy himself a few more heartbeats of peace–he knows whatever rejection Go wears will shatter him. But he doesn’t make Go wait long before he complies; what he finds in his expression…isn’t what he anticipated. He can’t define it–Go can be cryptic when he wants to be–but it isn’t disgust as Spark knows it. But Spark’s words fail him because Go still strokes the paths of his bandages, tracing the criss-crossing suechers holding his wounds closed.

“You found me after I was taken.”

“Yes…?”

“Alone, putting your own life at risk.”

He can see where this line of questioning leads. He’s suddenly careening towards a cliff on a runaway train, powerless to stop it, and he doesn’t even know how he got there. “I had three powerful pokemon with me,” Spark argues weakly. Go snaps the elastic of Spark’s underwear–Spark yelps embarrassingly–but he quickly soothes away the surprise by touching his bandages again. “Yes,” Spark answers instead.

“You killed people.”

This is where the train leaves the tracks. Spark considers looking away, but he knows Go won’t tolerate it. He licks his lips, searching Go’s expression for some scrap of understanding, some iota of compassion, though he doesn’t expect to find any. And he doesn’t. “…yes,” he says hoarsely.

“You killed pokemon.”

Admitting to one is hardly worse than admitting to the other. He’s resigned, free-falling, when he says, “Yes.”

“To save me.”

Spark can’t face him anymore, can’t bear the intense ruthlessness of his gaze, can’t withstand the weight of it. He’s no stranger to losing everything, but it gets harder every time. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before staring somewhere over Go’s shoulder. Go lets him. “…yes,” he murmurs.

“And then, freshly injured and in pain, you came to my room.”

“Yes.”

“Because you had to see me.”

Spark sighs. “Yes.”

Go’s voice softens so sweetly when he says his name–"Spark?"–Spark nearly falls to tears. It twists something in his chest that makes it hard to breathe. It feels like collecting water with a sieve. It leaves him stripped and raw and so ill-equipped to regain any sense of composure. But Go expects an answer, so Spark gives him one:

“…yes?”

Now Go won’t let him look away. He takes Spark by the jaw and guides his gaze back to meet his, and what Spark sees in his eyes–he can’t even begin to collect his erratic feelings before they’re spilling over and drowning him. “You’re an idiot,” Go says, so fond and full of affection.

Spark’s tears come when Go holds him fast and kisses him. He whimpers when Go suckles his bottom lip, then whines when he presses harder and slips his tongue into his mouth. There’s no plundering, no ravaging, though Spark’s chest heaves as Go wrecks him just the same. Slick lips caress his and Go’s warm breath has Spark hungering to close the space between them. He yanks Go’s shirt weakly to urge him to do so.

Go leans over him, bracing his weight on his forearm beside Spark’s shoulder, and doesn’t stop kissing him. His body is a line of heat along Spark’s side, familiar and tangible, and Spark can’t stop himself from touching. Careful, so careful of his injuries, Spark skates a hand up Go’s shirt. He finds more bandages–medical tape and gauze–but also warm skin. Go hums against Spark’s kiss-swollen lips. Go is alive and there and kissing him. Between saccharine caresses and chaste presses, Go cards his fingers through Spark’s hair tenderly.

Spark gasps wetly into the next meeting of their mouths, and when he closes his eyes, the brimming tears spill to dampen his temples. Go brushes away what he can, nuzzles noses with him, then murmurs again, “You’re an idiot.”

Impulsively, Spark says brokenly, “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for–the lives he’s taken, his streaming tears, the emotions he can’t tame and is still too terrified to identify, Go’s injuries–but he’s sorry. He’s so sorry.

“Don’t be,” Go answers, and kisses him again.

###

Spark glares at the door before it opens, the soft knock upon its surface hardly a warning or a request to enter. He isn’t surprised when is uncle walks into the room, but at least his uncle is observant enough to remain quiet; Go slumbers peacefully while he cradles Spark, and though Spark is loathe to leave the inherent comfort of Go’s arms, he’d be even more outraged for Go to be disturbed.

Stormy and Balto hover worriedly just beyond the door, peeking daringly around Lt. Surge’s large, imposing form. Lt. Surge, for his part, just nods towards the door behind him.

Spark gestures vaguely with a wave of his hand for a few moments, and his uncle gives him a faint nod before leaving the room. The door softly clicks shut behind him, and Spark heaves a quiet sigh.

He never imagined being grateful Go slept so heavily, but Spark is as he cautiously extricates himself from Go’s possessive hold–so possessive, even in sleep. Spark smirks and bites his lip. Finally free, Spark lingers to savor the sight of Go’s peacefully resting face, how the severity he sometimes wore is completely absent, how, so too, was his brilliant smile. Still, he looks unburdened as he only can in sleep.

After pulling the warm blankets up around him, Spark kisses Go’s forehead. He searches the room for a notepad and pen, jotting a note to be found upon Go’s waking.

“Admin business. Be back soon. ~S. PS–don’t forget to eat.”

Spark leaves the room. How his pokemon and his uncle waited for him outside isn’t a shock, but what is a shock is how Spark doesn’t feel the least bit guilty for making them wait. He closes the door as quietly as Lt. Surge had. “Have Rudy brought to Go as soon as possible,” he says.

“Understood.”

Spark nods, pleased, then asks, “What’s the situation?”

Lt. Surge answers, “The Academy’s combing the area in droves.”

“How long have I been out?” At his uncle’s behest, they make their way down the hall, away from Go’s room. Balto presses close to Spark, and Spark accepts the invitation to lean against him. Stormy’s on Balto’s back and gives Spark’s hair a quick nuzzle, static crackling between them. He pets her head in greeting.

“About two days.”

He hums. “That means they’re launching their official search. I wonder–” if Candela thinks I’ve abandoned her? It’s the one consequence he hadn’t considered before taking action. He stumbles briefly in his hesitation, but Balto is there to catch his unsteady weight. Lt. Surge, too, puts a hand between his shoulder blades to help him regain his footing. Suddenly, almost to himself, he says, “I have to see Zapdos.”

“Is it wise to bring him into this?” Lt. Surge asks, carefully. “It’s one thing if you rebel. It’s another if–”

“He’s in this as deep as I am, uncle,” Spark interrupts. “There are no secrets between he and I.”

Spark can’t tell if his uncle is awed or troubled when he says, “Your bond with him is deep. It’s always been clear, but…” He frowns. “I guess I never imagined it being tested in this way.”

“We’ll see if he keeps me once the dust settles,” Spark comments, bitterly. He straightens as much as he can through the pain arcing through his hips and weakening his knees; he forces all the authority of Team Instinct’s Leader into his voice as he says, “Keep Blanche and Candela at bay. I’ll deal with them when I’m ready.” With a hardened expression, Lt. Surge huffs, “You want us to face off against emissaries?”

“Two emissaries,” Spark carelessly corrects, holding up fingers to indicate the number. “But just keep them busy. They won’t attack the gym–they’re too honorable for that.” Unlike me. “They’ll push you to give in, but don’t. I’ll see to them soon.” It sounds far more ominous than he means, though he decides to use it to his advantage.

“Spark…”

But Spark limps away from his uncle and heads towards Zapdos’ roost down a different hallway. “I’m not asking you to protect me, uncle,” he calls with an absent wave. “I’m asking you to distract them.” He glances back only briefly when hurried footsteps pound the floor behind him, but his uncle addresses the harried gym lieutenants in his stead.

“You heard the Leader’s order?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Then get to it!”

With his hand still resting on Balto’s flank, Spark smirks–his uncle’s military bellow hasn’t changed in all these years. It booms thunderously, and it rattles Spark’s bones. It’s the first time he can remember being grateful to hear it.

#pokemon #pokemon go #fic #fanfic #foxtricks writes #foxtricks writing #go #spark #gospark #team instinct #blanche #team mystic #candela #team valor #lt. surge #spark pov #angst #foxtricks pokemon #angsty fluff

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thefoxtricks · 8 years

Text

Too Good (3/?)

Author’s Note: in this chapter, I draw inspiration from a head canon by @characats about Spark’s lineage. I also use a slew of OCs just to sort of round-out the cast and move the story along. Unless otherwise stated, any non-canon character is mine.

Candela is ready to leave within an hour of Blanche’s decree, her pokemon and all three Birds in tow.

Blanche is quick to dispatch punishment for his insubordination in the form of Spark’s new assignments: Valor’s students and lieutenants. She reserves the administrative work--the paperwork and appraisals--for herself.

But just as quickly as Blanche formulated the reorganization of the Academy, Spark quickly developed his own plans of rebellion. It’s a decision he makes before he realizes he’s made it, investing far too much thought in how to utilize his own resources to find Go instead of how to simultaneously manage Valor and Instinct. It drags him far from the present whenever he can escape it in a quiet moment.

Spark defies Blanche further by seeing Candela off. They stand on the roof of the Academy, the large, flat space a sky hub of sorts for the Birds’ various cloisters. Articuno, Zapdos, and Moltres surround them, and their combined powers reverberate in a strange sort of harmony. Despite this, it’s still overwhelming, even for Spark.

He can only imagine how overwhelmed Candela must feel.

“I can’t thank you enough for this,” she says. Her eyes are brilliant crimson--from proximity to Moltres--and Spark knows his own are shining gold so near Zapdos. “I never would have even considered asking for their help without your suggestion.”

Spark shrugs. “Zapdos and I have a special bond.” When he reaches out, Zapdos rubs the side of his face against his palm. “I can’t imagine not asking for his help with something like this.”

I will find him, Zapdos promises Spark privately.

Candela hugs Spark again, though he’s prepared for it this time. He hugs her in return, squeezing her tight. She has no idea the fate of his breaking heart rides with her on Moltres’ wings.

He fights to keep his breath steady. What he wouldn’t give to go with her. It would be so much easier than the edge of decision upon which he stands. He knows he’ll jump, but falling terrifies him. The ramifications will be enormous. “Stay safe,” he tells her as she pulls away.

Moltres lowers her head and body, and Candela climbs atop her gracefully with practiced ease. “Zapdos and Articuno will keep you and Blanche informed of our progress,” she says.

She doesn’t know Spark had already made such arrangements with Zapdos, but he smiles and nods as if hearing it for the first time. “Good. Thank you.”

“I guess I’ll see you?”

Spark nods again. “See ya.”

###

Team Valor is a nightmare. They’re bold and brash, aggressive and abrasive; and they’re loud. In all his time as Team Instinct’s Leader, Spark had never seen Team Valor as chaotic as within the mere hours after he and Blanche announced Candela’s leave of absence. They barely managed to outline the temporary chain of command before being swarmed by Valor’s lieutenants, all of whom were ready to assume a misguidedly preconceived notion of Interim Team Leader.

“No,” Spark says for what feels like the thousandth time. “As I’ve already said, Blanche and I will be managing Team Valor’s affairs while Candela is away. There’s no need for you spearhead any sweeping changes.” He rubs his temples and sighs, and though the Valor lieutenant's words are a barrage of sound against his already pounding head, none of his words register.

Right as Spark swears his head will explode, his own lieutenant--his second, in fact--intervenes.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Rylie says. She physically puts herself between Spark and the Valor lieutenant--a man whose name Spark can’t even recall. Rylie’s raichu’s cheeks crackle in warning from where he’s perched on his trainer’s shoulder. At Spark’s feet, Stormy also bristles.

“Fine!” he huffs, then storms out of Spark’s office.

“You alright, boss?” Rylie asks once he’s well and away. Her hand is a familiar weight where it falls on Spark’s shoulder, and Spark just sighs when her thumb digs keenly into the tension-tight muscle.

“No,” he answers honestly, lolling his head to the side. “I’m not alright.” He leans out of her reach then stands, and his spine pops in all the wrong ways when he stretches. “Would you mind--”

“Gavin’s already wrangling the rookery rounds, and Marcus is handling Instinct appraisals in your stead. Abilene’s set to oversee Instinct practice battles. You had a few gym inspections scheduled for this week, but I’m more than capable of evaluating them.”

Spark stares at her, aghast. His jaw may or may not be hanging open. When she smiles and a rosy pink dusts her cheeks, he imagines his expression to be an embarrassing one. He collects himself quickly, however, and says, “That’s--thank you. You’re incredibly efficient.”

She laughs lightly and shrugs. “I’m not your second for nothing.”

“What did I do to deserve you?” he all but whines. He wants to hug her, but instead, pulls his phone from his pocket and makes a note to give her a raise. Out of habit, he checks his messages and calls, and he still hasn’t received anything from Go.

He also hasn’t heard from Zapdos.

Spark’s sure, without a doubt, Go is well and truly missing. His chest aches.

Rylie shrugs and bites her lip. “Do you have any other concerns, boss?”

“No,” Spark says, tucking away his phone. “I, um, I guess I’ll be seeing to Valor since you have Instinct well managed.”

“Maybe you should see to yourself, first,” Rylie suggests gently.

“How so?”

“This was a really sudden shift within the Academy’s hierarchy,” she explains. “It’s a lot, and it’s obvious you didn’t have the luxury of planning. Ease into it, if you can, instead of letting it swamp you, you know? I can keep Instinct in line and Valor off your back for a while. Breathe, Spark. Regroup, then tackle this, okay?”

“Yeah,” Spark agrees absently. He winces as he rubs his brow--his headache refuses to quit. “Yeah, I’ll, um. I’ll just take some time and--yeah.”

“Call me if you need anything, boss.” Rylie turns to leave, but before she can exit his suite, Spark impulsively stops her.

“Actually--” When he swallows his throat clicks, but with it, he chokes down his apprehension and nervousness. Caution didn’t have to lead to fear, and he wouldn’t let it. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t raised to be scared.

She turns to him with an eyebrow raised in question.

“Prep my gyms,” Spark says, steadier than he feels. “I want my top trainers and their strongest pokemon ready at a moment’s notice. Diverse teams.”

“Boss?”

Waving his hand, Spark says, “Call it a--a drill. Have them ready to execute any order as top priority.”

“Understood,” Rylie says with a nod. Her expression, however, retains some healthy skepticism.

“Good.”

When she opens the door, Spark lets her leave.

###

“I never thought I’d need this,” Spark says. He coughs around dust bunnies and tufts of Stormy’s shedded fur, then bumps his head on the frame of the bed as he shimmies out from beneath it. He clutches the locked metal box with trembling hands.

Stormy chirps worriedly.

With a nervous laugh, Spark rummages through his nightstand for the key, then unlocks the box. “I don’t even know if I remember how to use it. Though--” He sighs and lifts the lid. The shiny M9 looks brand new, polished clean, nestled safely with its accompanying holster. When he pulls it out, its weight feels alarmingly familiar in his grip. “--I don’t want to do this.”

Tentatively, Stormy approaches Spark, eyeing the weapon warily. She rests a paw against his thigh and coos, ears twitching.

“Candela won’t find him on her own,” Spark says. He goes through the motions of slotting the ammo clip into place and cocks the weapon. He remembers. It makes him grimace, but his uncle’s thundering voice rolls through his thoughts unbidden, coaching him through it. “He’ll be dead by the time she does,” he justifies.

Licking his lips nervously, he looks to Stormy. “Maybe if I’d been more willing to take such measures in the past--”

She interrupts him with a sharp bark. She’s puffed up and furious, static crackling around her threateningly.

“I know,” he says, and he sighs. “I know. I just...” With a gentle sweep of his hand, he urges Stormy off his lap, then climbs to his feet. He straps the holster to his thigh and tests its security by fetching the weapon’s ammunition from the top shelf of his closet.

He’s never told anyone about the gun; he’s mostly ashamed of it. As an army officer, however, his uncle had insisted he learn his way around firearms from an early age. Because of that, the responsibility was gravely serious to him, and Spark generally abstained from using such weapons. Just like he generally abstained from utilizing the other lessons his uncle taught him during his youth.

But with Blanche tethering him to the Academy and burying him under work, with Candela’s inexperience in tracking, with how every moment Go was gone increased the likelihood that Go would be found dead...

Spark didn’t have a choice.

He discharges the clip from the weapon and fills it with ammunition before sliding it back into place. After holstering the weapon, he fills another five clips with ammunition and stows them in easily accessible pockets.

“I’ll need you with me,” he says, turning to Stormy. “And I’ll need Balto, too.”

Stormy snorts indignantly.

“But just the two of you. Will you fetch him for me? I have a call to make.”

Her sigh is long-suffering, and her pout is annoyed, but she gives a faint nod and heads to the door. It opens for her, then shuts behind her.

Alone, Spark frowns as he takes a seat at his desk and pulls up the halo-phone. Everything within him says not to make the call, but everything within him also recognizes its necessity--Go deserves, no, needs, every ounce of Spark’s effort, and that includes every resource at his disposal. Even the ones his fellow Team Leaders weren’t exactly aware of. He takes a deep breath and wills his pounding heart to slow. Just like taking aim, he reminds himself. He contacts the familiar number.

Fire.

“Lieutenant Surge,” comes the gruff greeting. But then, “Spark.” And his grim expression brightens a bit, his crooked grin familiar.

Spark musters a smile, though he can feel its edges tremble. “Uncle Taran. I know it’s been a while, but I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything,” Surge says easily, and Spark regrets every weekend over the past several months he’d avoided calling him.

He regrets every bitter resentment and every harbored grudge. But of course his uncle would never hold him accountable for his irrational anger--he never did, even when Spark was young. His uncle’s love was unconditional in every sense of the word, and Spark didn’t deserve even an iota of it.

“I need your help.”

###

The inauguration of Valor’s new Team Leader comes with the usual pomp and circumstance. Dressed in his Instinct formals, Spark watches Ariel entrust the future of Team Valor to Candela, a feisty young Valor trainer Moltres claimed as emissary--well, young by Valor Leader standards, anyway. He absently strokes Zapdos’ cheek where the Bird’s head hovers over his shoulder while Candela undergoes the Bonding to Moltres.

The ceremony’s completion is met with a cacophony of cheers, and Candela is appropriately overwhelmed with her new position and power.

He and Blanche make small-talk with Candela over the following feast, where they sit far and removed from the rest of the Academy’s students and staff; pedestalled like royalty. Spark generally detests the whole affair, though Candela seems amiable enough.

Ariel remains with them for the evening, and will guide Candela through the more arduous aspects of assuming leadership in the coming weeks. But before the Team Leaders disband for the night, there’s a final formality they must uphold: the exchanging of pokemon.

In ages past, the necessary harmony between the three Legendary Birds was symbolized by the exchanging of specialized pokemon between emissaries. Though each emissary had a strong resonance with pokemon of the same type as their Bird, there was a deep reverence for the understanding of the other Birds within the triad. It was about respect more than anything else, and ensuring a stable power balance.

When Spark became Zapdos’ emissary, Ariel--Moltres’ emissary at the time--had given him a well-bred magmar. Blanche had given him a gyarados of similar pedigree.

Spark anticipates meeting she, Ariel, and Blanche at the central rooftop of the Birds’ cloisters, per tradition. What he doesn’t expect is to find Candela holding a large cardboard box and her family beside her: her parents brimming with pride and a younger brother who appears strangely distraught.

“Um...”

Candela smiles nervously. “Ariel said it was okay for them to come?”

Spark glances to Blanche to gauge her reaction, and when she seems unbothered by it, Spark shrugs. “Sure.”

“Um, this is my mom, Kirana, and my father, Cyrus,” Candela says. “Mom, Dad, meet Spark and Blanche, my fellow emissaries.”

Smiles and handshakes are exchanged.

“And this is my brother, Go,” Candela continues. “He’ll be enrolling in the Academy within a year or two.”

Go gives Spark and Blanche a disinterested wave.

“We hope he’ll follow in his sister’s footsteps,” Kirana says with a smile.

But Go’s too focused on the box Candela holds, and suddenly Spark is, too. There’s faint rustling coming from within the cardboard, and tiny yips and whimpers accompany it.

Blanche takes the reigns of the custom, as she usually does. “As Articuno’s emissary, I come bearing a lapras of renowned heritage. Please accept it as a token of solidarity.” She holds the pokeball out with both hands.

Cheeks flush, Candela quickly thrusts the wriggling box into her brother’s arms and accepts Blanche’s gift with a bow of her head. “Thank you, Blanche.” She glances side-long at Ariel, who gives the barest of nods, then continues, “Through training this pokemon, I shall strive to understand and integrate the values of Mystic into my leadership of Valor.”

Though Go and the cardboard box are distracting, Spark isn’t so taken as to miss his cue as Instincts Leader. “As Zapdos’ emissary, I come bearing an electabuzz bred from the honed stock of Lt. Surge, Leader of the Vermilion Gym. Please accept it as a token of solidarity.” Following Blanche’s example, Spark offers the pokeball to Candela with both hands.

Candela accepts the pokeball with wide eyes. “Lt. Surge...he’s a legend.”

Spark smirks. “And you will be, too, as Moltres’ emissary.”

Ariel clears her throat.

“Thank you,” Candela quickly stammers. “Through training this pokemon, I shall strive to understand and integrate the values of Instinct into my leadership of Valor.”

There’s a pause that dances along the cusp of awkward where Candela stares at the two new pokemon bestowed upon her. A gentle prodding from Ariel brings Candela back to the present.

“Oh,” she says. “Um, as Moltres’ new emissary, I come bearing, er...” She glances to the box Go clutches tightly to his chest. With a nervous laugh, she says, “We breed growlithes, and these are the best of the most recent litter. I...wasn’t sure how this whole thing would work, so I figured you could pick the pup you like most?”

A rare smile spreads across Blanche’s normally stoic face, and Spark outright laughs.

“Sounds good to me.”

Blanche is first to select her growlithe pup. The pokemon yips gleefully and wags its small, fluffy tail. There’s still a bit of daylight left, despite the setting sun, so as the growlithe pup burrows into Blanche’s jacket, she gravitates to where Candela stands with her parents and Ariel.

As they talk, Spark approaches the box where Go sits cross-legged and grouching. He has his hand in the box, absently stroking the pups. Without preamble, Spark sits cross-legged opposite him with the box between them.

There are still five pups left. Each of them wears a different colored collar, and when Spark puts his hand within their reach, all but one swarm his palm with eager tongues and nibbling teeth. There’s one with a yellow collar that immediately catches Spark’s attention.

“They’re cute,” he says.

“Yeah,” Go mumbles. The pup he pets wears the yellow collar. It’s a bit bigger than the others, Spark notes, and its black stripes are particularly, haphazardly jagged. They remind Spark of lightning bolts. Go pulls his hand away, and the pup joins its litter mates swarming Spark’s hand.

“Your sister is Team Valor’s Leader, emissary to Moltres,” Spark says. “It’s a great honor. Most people would be ecstatic, but you don’t seem too thrilled.”

Go shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s okay,” he says. “She deserves it, sure.”

Yellow Collar shoves itself hard into the cardboard wall, so Spark collects it into his lap before it looses them all by destroying the box. He’s drawn to the pup, but isn’t sure he’ll choose it. It settles well enough into his lap and chews on the hem of his jacket sleeve. Its fur is so soft beneath his fingertips. “Then what’s got you down, kiddo?”

“What makes you think I’m not always like this?” Go challenges, expression more dower than previously.

Spark grins easily. “Instinct,” he answers, and Go snorts where he tries not to laugh.

After a moment’s trepidation, Go sighs and glances to where his family actively engages with Blanche. They don’t seem to pay them any mind, so he sighs and says, “One of these pups was supposed to be mine.”

Spark raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“But Candela insisted the Team Leaders have first pick, even if it was the one I wanted.”

Frowning, Spark says, “Which pup?”

Go nods to the one in Spark’s lap.

“Oh,” Spark says. He immediately collects the pup from his lap and moves to return it to the box, but Go shakes his head. Go’s arm across the top of the box stops Spark from putting the pup in it. “Go, I don’t want to take your pup.”

“You’re not,” Go says with a forced neutrality. “He went to you the moment I stopped distracting him. He’s not mine anymore.”

“Don’t be silly. I could just as easily choose another.”

Go glares at him, and Spark flinches beneath its harshness. “You don’t know anything about growlithes, do you?” he hisses.

Because the pup squirms in his outstretched arms, Spark returns it to his lap, and it returns to chewing on his sleeve. Laughing nervously, he blushes--he can feel his cheeks heat--and says, “Actually, no. Fire-type isn’t my forte.”

Go rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t seem as annoyed. “Growlithes tend to choose their trainers, if given the opportunity, and we’ve bred ours to be particularly keen in that. Blanche’s chose her. He’s chosen you.” The unspoken ‘instead of me’ rings loudly between them. “You’re his trainer now.”

Something about Go’s resignation doesn’t sit well with Spark. “Did you name him?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Go says. He slides the box out of Spark’s reach, as if he doesn’t trust him not to return the pup with the yellow collar and snatch a different one. He’s not wrong to trust those instincts, because Spark would very much like to exchange pups if it means Go wouldn’t be so upset.

“It does,” Spark insists. “It’s his name.”

“He’s your pokemon. Name him whatever you want.”

“Go.”

With furrowed brows and a grim frown, Go mutters, “Balto.”

Spark huffs, then lifts the pup to eye-level. To the growlithe lurching to lick his nose, he says, “Well, Balto, since Go is so set on you staying with me, I’ll make sure you’re the best you can possibly be. Even if you are fire-type. You’ll be my exception. Sound good?”

Balto yips, and his back end swings violently with his wagging tail.

Setting Balto back into his lap, Spark shifts to pull a pokeball from the back of his belt. He’d brought two for Candela, uncertain of which would suit her best. He knows he made the right choice with the electabuzz, but he’s also selfishly glad to keep the pichu--it would grow into a powerful pokemon. Already, it showed signs of a wonderfully social disposition and, well...

“Here,” he says, holding the ball out to Go. “Take him.”

Confused, Go tentatively takes the pokeball from Spark. “What--?”

“Release him.”

Go does, and the pokeball opens with a loud pop. At the end of its erratic energy beam, a brilliant pichu suddenly stands, bight eyes wide in bewilderment. Its ears twitch nervously as it looks between Spark and Go.

Spark tells the pichu, “This is Go. He’ll be taking care of you from now on.”

“I can’t accept this,” Go stammers. He looks over his shoulder--Spark follows his gaze--and yes, everyone is watching them with mixed expressions of surprise and horror.

Well, Ariel is horrified. Blanche seems more amused. Candela is frankly, shocked.

Go tries to recapture the pichu, but instead of returning to its pokeball, it drops to all-fours and scampers into his lap. Go keeps his hands well away from the pokemon.

“Electric rodents are incredibly social and prefer to choose their trainers if they can,” Spark explains. “Not much different from a growlithe, as I understand it.” He smiles. “So, I guess you’ve been chosen as well. Don’t be surprised if he shocks you, though. He’s still young.” Working around Balto nibbling his sleeve, Spark pulls off his gloves and tosses them at Go.

Go catches them without tearing his gaze from the imploring pokemon in his lap.

“Insulated. Should help with the shocks.”

Go slides them on before carefully cupping the pichu’s cheeks. They pop with small bursts of static, but it doesn’t faze Go. The pichu seems exceptionally pleased and presses its face into Go’s hands.

“Um,” Go starts. “What’s his name?”

“He doesn’t have one,” Spark answers. “I hadn’t bonded with him enough to figure out a good one for him.”

“You should name him,” Go says.

“No,” Spark gently counters. “You should name him.”

“The sun’s nearly set,” Ariel announces, her voice abruptly cutting through whatever moment Go and Spark share.

Spark collects Balto to his chest and launches himself to his feet with only the barest of stumbles. He laughs at himself, then smiles when Go looks up at him with an expression Spark can’t name. “Be sure stop by to see Balto sometime, okay? You gotta make sure I’m training him well. I’ll check your progress with your new pichu, too, yeah?”

Go just nods.

Spark boldly winks at him. “Good meeting you, Go. Good luck with training.”

###

Spark sits on the edge of the nest-like throne in Zapdos’ cloister, idly kicking his dangling legs. With Zapdos absent, Stormy and Balto sit in the cloister with him, both watching him with worry drawing their expressions.

Balto is an arcanine now--extraordinarily large for his species and remarkably powerful. He’s big enough for Spark to ride as a mount, and tall enough to nose Spark’s knee where he sits on Zapdos’ elevated throne-nest. Spark swears Balto’s development is due to the extensive involvement of both Candela and Go in his training, but neither sibling will admit to their contributions. It’s fine, though; Spark and Balto both know.

Stormy is perched on Balto’s head, and while they aren’t the best of friends, they’re compatible teammates. Together, they’re Spark’s strongest and most loyal pokemon.

He pets them intermittently, but ultimately lets his hands flop into his lap. Their apprehension is clear--pokemon, as a general rule, aren’t fans of weapons. There’s something innately in them that shirks away from the sight of them, that sends them running when they fire; probably something from eons back in their evolution. Spark imagines pokemon understand the pain and injury that comes from fighting one another, but a firearm is something completely different, completely human and altogether alien.

Spark is terrifyingly armed even by human standards.

He has an AR10 rifle slung over his back and the M9 strapped his thigh. At his uncle’s behest, he traded his leather jacket for something darker with an armored vest beneath it, and his black pants for standard military pants that allow him quieter, more varied movement. His boots are also heavier, sturdier, and he as a buck knife tucked against his ankle.

Two thoughts keep him from trembling beneath the weight of his weaponry. The first and foremost is Go--Go’s safety, the necessity to find him and bring him home. The second is the auxiliary assistance he’d arranged with his uncle’s help. No less than six electric gyms are primed and ready for Spark’s order, and his uncle organized a team of specialists to intervene if Spark finds the situation more than he can handle. Though the ever confident Lt. Surge swears Spark will be just fine.

Spark doesn’t feel fine.

He honestly feels sick.

His eyes burn with Zapdos’ approach. He doesn’t move from where he sits, but Balto and Stormy slink away into the farthest corner of the cloister. Spark sometimes wonders what unnerves them more: Zapdos himself, or Zapdos’ effect on him. He’s seen his reflection when near the Bird. His golden eyes are disconcerting, even to himself.

Zapdos’ large wings kick up dust and ripple through Spark’s hair, but he lands upon his throne-nest without disturbing him. Spark can’t bear to look at him.

You’re prepared for battle.

“I’m prepared for a hunt,” Spark corrects, because finding Go is easier to think about than possibly having to fight to get to him. “I know you didn’t find him.”

Today was an exercise in futility. Candela lacks the skills necessary to effectively find your mate. He pauses. But you knew this.

“Will you help me search?”

Articuno does not approve.

“I don’t care,” Spark says, ashamed at the bitter truth of it. He’s so beyond caring about power balances and responsibility to the world--he just wants Go safe. He wants Go home. He wants Go alive.

Then neither do I. He lowers his head for Spark to climb atop him, which Spark does without hesitation. Come, my brethren. I’ll not harm you. We are one in this endeavor.

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thefoxtricks · 8 years

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Fireworks

Derek hates the Fourth of July. It’s obvious in the set of his jaw and the draw of his brow. It’s in his tense shoulders and how tightly his arms are folded across his chest. His knee bounces sporadically. Particularly loud booms yank full-body flinches from his tightly wound body.

Stiles hates the Fourth of the July because Derek hates it so much.

Despite how his loft hugs the fringes of downtown, it’s still downtown. Cars and meandering people pack the streets and force traffic to a crawl—everyone’s drawn to the annual fireworks show.

Derek doesn’t hate the Fourth of July, he reminds Stiles adamantly. He hates fireworks.

With a soft sigh, Stiles eases the heart of his palm over Derek’s trembling kneecap, and Derek unwinds a fraction beneath the touch.

The TV drones with some documentary about melting icecaps, something inane and utterly boring, but the narrator’s voice is a soothing, steady cadence and just loud enough to soften the celebratory blows outside. For Stiles, anyway. For Derek, well, werewolf hearing isn’t so easily redirected.

“Can you tell the difference between fireworks and gunfire?” Stiles boldly asks. He shifts beside Derek so they’re a bit closer, sharing a bit more heat.

“Not always,” Derek grumbles.

Stiles presses against him harder. He uses his free hand to pry apart Derek’s protectively crossed arms and ducks beneath the one closest to him. Neither of them acknowledge how Derek immediately clutches Stiles to his side. “We could have spent the holiday at my house. I mean, yeah, there’s still a community show, but it probably wouldn’t be as loud.”

“This is my den,” Derek says. “My wolf would be even more unsettled.”

After chewing his lip for a thoughtful moment, Stiles asks, “Do you want to tell me about that?”

“About what?”

“About how your wolf is unsettled,” Stiles answers. “Like, what’s that like? What’s unsettling it?” Though they’re both staring at the television, Stiles feels the moment Derek frowns skeptically.

“You’re asking me what anxiety feels like?” the werewolf asks, weakly amused.

Stiles shrugs. “It’s different for everybody.”

Derek grumbles unintelligibly, and he sounds so much like a disgruntled dog, Stiles has to consciously refrain from mimicking him.

“Here,” he says instead, and ducks out from Derek’s hold. He doesn’t miss the flash of fear in Derek’s iridescent eyes, or how they momentarily flash a panicked, brilliant blue, so he presses a lingering kiss to Derek’s temple. “I’ll be right back.”

He isn’t gone long. Stiles only leaves Derek’s side long enough to collect the big, sweater blanket from Derek’s obscenely large bed. It’s Stiles’ favorite, often cocooning himself within its soft fibers when the loft is just a tad too chilly for his meager human flesh. When he returns to the couch, he wraps it around Derek’s shoulders, then slides under the werewolf’s arm once again. He pulls the blanket around them both, sheltering them further from the deafening onslaught outside.

Beside him, Derek takes a deep breath and relaxes just a little bit more. Stiles knows the blanket is positively drenched in his scent and hoped it might ease Derek’s wolf. He’s glad it seems to work.

“So,” he prompts, gently. “Your wolf.”

“My wolf,” Derek repeats, but he’s leaning into Stiles slightly.

“What’s he hate most about fireworks? Is it the sound? Scott says some of the dogs in the clinic will howl in their kennels because they’re so scared.”

“The sound isn’t…pleasant,” Derek says. “It’s loud, disorienting. It covers other sounds. It…sounds like gunfire, but…”

“But…?”

“But that’s not the worst thing,” the werewolf says. He rests his cheek against the top of Stiles’ head, where Stiles leans on his shoulder. Absently, he strokes Stiles’ arm. He squeezes back when Stiles’ laces their fingers.

“What’s the worst thing?”

“It smells like gunfire, too.”

Stiles frowns, ready to prompt Derek further, but he doesn’t have to—Derek continues on his own.

“Gunpowder smells like gunpowder, whether it’s from a firearm or a firework. So, it…” He sighs. “It makes my wolf ready for a fight. Or to run.”

“It’s triggering,” Stiles reaffirms.

“Yeah,” Derek says. “I guess.”

“Is this helping at all? Me being here? The blanket?”

“The blanket was smart,” Derek remarks. “I smell you more than the smoke.”

“And me?”

“You always help.”

Stiles chuckles and tilts his head up enough to kiss beneath Derek’s jaw. “Good to know.” Then he presses a yawn into the werewolf’s shoulder. “The show should be dying down soon, I think. It’s getting sorta late.”

“Will you stay the night?” Derek asks.

And though they’ve been together for some time—Stiles even has his own key to the loft—Derek rarely, if ever, explicitly asks him to stay. Even when they tumble into bed, tripping over hastily discarded clothing, Derek never asks Stiles to stay the night. Stiles just does, like it’s some mutual understanding.

“Yeah,” Stiles says after a moment of reflection. “Yeah, of course I will.”

“Thanks,” Derek breathes into his hair.

After bringing their joined hands to his lips to kiss Derek’s knuckles, Stiles says, “Anytime, Sourwolf.”

#teen wolf #fic #fanfic #foxtricks writing #foxtricks writes #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek #ficlet

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thefoxtricks · 8 years

Text

here’s a thing i started and never finished! should i bother?

----------

Let it not be said that Stiles Stilinski wasn’t the best bro to ever bro. Let it not be said that Stiles Stilinski wasn’t dedicated to his job. Let it not be said that Stiles “No Gods, No Masters” Stilinski wasn’t capable of selflessness. Somewhere between Scott being the victim of a Non-Con Bite in high school, and using his Spark to become an Emissary, Stiles had also lost his sense of self-preservation. On a good day, he called it confidence. On a bad day, he called it stupidity. Today, he called it a necessary risk.

Derek Hale was a difficult man to corner. Alpha of the Hale Pack and heir to Hale Industries, after the bomb that claimed the lives of his family and a large swath of his Pack, he’d taken to a life of discretion. He’d lived for the media in his youth, but loss changes people. Oh sure, a few articles featured him after a socially acceptable amount of time had passed, but the man had money and power to maintain his privacy. He was known for making it dangerous for people to get too close.

Thankfully, Stiles’ role as McCall Pack Emissary blurred the lines of undying loyalty, friendship, and blood oaths. Sometimes it meant working with other Emissaries to mediate between Packs. Sometimes it meant writing a speech for Scott to give on victims’ support and the need for stronger legislation. Sometimes it meant sneaking into a club and cornering someone who wouldn’t bother to meet Scott or return phone calls.

Through a questionable use of his powers, his own charm, and that special skillset he developed as the delinquent son of a sheriff, Stiles managed to infiltrate Prowlers without an invitation. So what if his name hadn’t been on the list one moment, but was the next? He flashed his eyes, licked his lips, and all but propositioned the bouncer to let him in. It was one of the hottest upscale clubs in New York City known for its elite wolf clientele and high-end wolfsbane liquors. It was also owned and frequented by Derek Hale. Rumor had it he hung out there regularly, that he made an appearance most weekends and hosted his guests’ good times. A shadier source told Stiles that Hale usually kept his second and his faux-emissary nearby.

Trance bass echoed in Stiles’ chest, dragging his heart to match its rhythm and muting his awareness. Black lights lit people dancing at the club’s center, where a descended dance floor kept the throbbing mob away from high-top tables and four full bars sitting along its perimeter. Elevated stages featured clients and entertainment alike in various stages of undress or costume. Fog whispered around his ankles and lasers pierced the dark. Sapphire and amber, the occasional ruby—wolves of all kinds occupied the space, identified by their freely glowing eyes and easily missed in the special effects of the club. It reminded him a bit of the Jungle back home, though with a much more diverse patronage.

Making his way to the bar was met with insistent hands and the press of sweaty bodies, but the groping and grinding was secondary to scanning the crowd for Derek Hale. Stiles was a man on a mission, an immersion-undercover sort of thing. It wasn’t officially official McCall Pack business—and it would actually land Scott into loads of trouble if Stiles was caught—but it would be one of many visits if Stiles had his way. Plausible deniability and such all around. It was simple: get familiar with the club, become a regular, try to spot Hale, casually approach. Easy. As long as he established positive contact before the Northeast Wolf Summit, everything was good.

Because by the Northeast Wolf Summit, Scott needed to be officially endorsed by Hale if he was ever going to get his nonprofit off the ground. Despite being the first True Alpha in an age, despite being a known Non-Con Bite victim to overcome tremendous odds, and despite the open support of the Ito Pack, Scott was still too young, too green to be taken seriously. But with Hale behind him, Scott would be unstoppable. Hale was the key to Scott helping people.

But finding Hale was going to be a bitch and half, Stiles realized, looking over the club from his perch at the bar. He’d only ever seen pictures of the guy online and in magazines, and even those photos were dated. In a dark, loud club with meager human senses to rely on, he could easily miss his opportunity if Hale had randomly decided to cut his hair or forego shaving.

Stiles found a seat and asked for the best the bartender had, only to be presented with something purple—wolfsbane infused—that burned bitterly down the hatch. He drank it quickly, then ordered another. Mission or not, it would look suspicious to anyone if he wasn’t drinking or on the dance floor. Two shots, several hours, and a thorough exploration of the club later, Stiles knew were all the exits were, but the night was proving to be a bust. Hale was nowhere to be found.

Fuck it.

He was pretty drunk—wolfsbane liquor hit humans even harder than werewolves—and a bit melancholy. Seeing no reason to waste a perfectly good buzz and all the effort it took to even get in, Stiles slid gracelessly from his seat, and somehow managed to make it safely into the pit of the dance floor without tripping. He awkwardly brushed against only a handful of people, so he counted it as a win.

From there, it was easy to lose himself. The pounding beat resonated from his toes to his skull, drowning out everything that wasn’t the pulse of the club. Bodies pressed against him, and he swayed easily where he was pushed or pulled. If his hips were grabbed, he leaned into the dirty grind. If his flank was caressed, he arched his back. Partners came and went and came again, and Stiles didn’t bother discriminating. A hot body was a hot body, and he was drowning in a sea of them.

He had his face against the neck of a pretty beta, a woman with thick, dark hair he scented even if he wasn’t a wolf himself, and mouthed at her neck. He’d had enough wolfsbane liquor to find profound transcendence in the lyrics of a dance song. Something about silent hearts, something about never being alone, something about forever, and maybe he’d find it with her. Between one thought of longing and the next, a solid wall of muscle materialized from the ether of the dance floor, pressing close against his back. Along the curve of his ass, he felt the incessant press of a hard cock, and well, wasn’t that a pleasant surprise? Ask and ye shall receive, he supposed, though Stiles couldn’t recall casting any sort of sex or love spell before prowling Prowlers.

A firm hand clamped on his hip while the other snaked around his chest to gently grasp the front of his throat and—oh, hello, possessive bastard—the man rocked his hips hard enough against Stiles’ to nearly topple him. Stiles’ grabbed the wrist resting against his neck, and tilted his head back, his spine bent in a lascivious arch. Hot lips dragged up the back of his neck, and he felt the wolf’s growl in his shoulder blades.

Stiles laughed, light and easy, drunk enough to keep dancing, drunk enough not to be intimidated. “Big Bad Wolf find something he likes?” he asked, knowing his new dance partner would hear him over the music.

The wolf’s tongue laved behind his ear, then he sucked a mark. Stiles moaned and pushed back against him harder, propriety lost in wolfsbane drinks.

“Maybe,” the wolf said, scenting Stiles. “Bathroom?”

“Hell yeah.”

The wolf tightened his grip on Stiles' throat in a brief, gentle squeeze—possessive—and gave a soft growl before snatching his hand and leading him through the pulsing mob of the dance floor. Stiles followed, giddy and wanting, and traced the lines of the wolf's back through the taught shirt stretched over his broad shoulders. He just about matched Stiles in height, but carried more muscle, was built sturdier, and aside from the sinful way his clothes hugged his body, he was plainly dressed—dark jeans and a pale shirt.

He couldn’t see his face—and that excited Stiles more than worried him.

They plowed through the idling patrons lingering in the hallway that lead towards the bathrooms. And while Stiles didn’t mind getting the party started waiting in a line, the wolf, instead, slammed the door open to the men’s room hard enough for it to bang against the wall and shoved Stiles into the first available stall.

Woah.

The bathroom was dimly lit—catering to the needs of glowing eyes and heightened senses—and Stiles stumbled, all but blind, where his hook-up guided him. But the music was muffled here, and he could hear how his wolf panted, clearly just as worked up as he was.

The wolf locked the stall with a clatter before grabbing Stiles by the front of his shirt and pressing him against the flimsy dividing wall. Before burying his face against Stiles’ neck, he hesitated just a moment, iridescent gaze—stunning even without a supernatural glow—flicking across Stiles’ face, mapping his features, sizing him up. Fair enough, Stiles thought, because it gave him a moment to briefly study the wolf in return. Chiseled jaw, perfect stubble just shy of a beard, soft looking lips, and arched, expressive eyebrows. Jesus, who was this guy? And when he started scenting him again, crowding Stiles against the dividing wall, pressing their hips together, Stiles felt the pleasurable burn of that beard scraping along the column of his throat.

“Ah, fuck,” Stiles hissed, tangling his fingers in the wolf’s dark, thick hair. He held his mouth against his neck, lifted his hips from the wall when the wolf started scrabbling at his belt and the fly of his jeans. When a broad, warm palm wrapped around his dick, Stiles worried he’d bite clear through his lip.

“This okay?” the wolf asked, and Christ, even his voice was sexy. A low rumble, rough with the strain of holding back, of taking the time to, you know, get consent.

Which, what? Why else would Stiles follow him into the bathroom of a club if he wasn’t looking to get sucked? Or fucked? Or to do the sucking, or fucking—Stiles wasn’t really picky so long as he managed to actually have the gorgeous werewolf in front of him.

“Yes, God yes,” Stiles panted. “Any—fuck—anything you want. You’re so fucking hot, I don’t even care.”

The wolf chuckled against his neck, and Stiles’ cheeks flushed with something close to embarrassment. Despite how it might not have been the right thing to say, Stiles knew its truth would be assured by the steady, if rapid, beating of his heart.

“Good,” the wolf murmured. He nuzzled, briefly, beneath Stiles’ jaw before dropping to his knees.

Stiles huffed, amazed, when the wolf grabbed his jeans and underwear and yanked them to his knees in a single, fluid motion, leaving him bare in the dim light of the bathroom with the cold stall wall against his ass cheeks. And with his clothes went his confidence—swoosh, gone—because the wolf was just staring at him like he’d never seen a hard dick before. He struggled not to fidget under the scrutiny.

“What?” he eventually asked when it became too much. He swiveled his hips a bit, the head of his dick nearly brushing the guy’s lips. “Not what you were expecting?” Because Stiles was pretty sure he presented as male, as masculine, even if he wasn’t built like the brick shithouse kneeling in front of him. Besides, from what Scott told him, lady arousal smelled differently from dude arousal—slick versus cum, that sort of thing.

The wolf shook his head dazedly, like he hadn’t even heard Stiles, before smirking ever so slightly and looking up at Stiles through the shadow of his lashes. “I didn’t say that,” he muttered. Without warning, he licked a long, broad stripe along the bottom of Stiles’ cock from root to tip, and Stiles pressed his palms against the wall when his knees quivered. Warm, wet tongue swirled twice around his head—and the wolf hummed, pleased—before Stiles was swallowed down to the hilt. It punched a trembling whimper from his lungs.

And no, this guy had definitely seen a hard dick before, had probably sucked several to attain the level of skill and finesse he experienced with his back against the wall of a bathroom stall. Gentle suckling, the passing swipe of tongue, the slide of spit-wet lips he watched his cock slide in and out of, and God, Stiles was going to meet his end embarrassingly quick. He looked away from the wolf’s hollow cheeks and intense gaze in favor of staring at the ceiling, but even that couldn’t slow his thundering pulse. Over the thump of the music, Stiles could just make out the faint, obscene sounds of getting head, somehow almost as hot as that tongue stroking him again and again.

#teen wolf #fic #fanfic #foxtricks writes #foxtricks writing #derek hale #stiles stilinski #sterek #emissary!stiles #alpha!derek #alternate universe #infectiouspunk

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thefoxtricks · 8 years

Text

31 - Under Water

so january has 31 days, and the prompt list only had 30. prompt 31 comes at @w0llen’s suggestion. it takes place in the same universe as prompts 15 and 21, and is officially the longest prompt in the series.

AND I AM OFFICIALLY DONE. LITERALLY A MONTH LATE, BUT DONE. find me on ao3 where the prompts more properly edited. i’m posting them daily without fail.

“Can we go now?”

Derek huffed a fond laugh, fixing Talia’s scarf despite how she impatiently squirmed. She looked like a fussy, frowning marshmallow in her light blue puffer jacket, her brows drawn in disapproval from somewhere beneath her knitted hat, but he took his time securing her scarf around her neck.

“We have to bundle up, my love,” Stiles explained from the other side of the room. He wore layers, bundled warm beneath a few long sleeves and a weather-resistant coat. He was wrapping up in his own scarf, the one with knitted wolves Talia had given him for Christmas the year prior. “Just because you don’t think you’ll get cold doesn’t mean the cold won’t hurt you.”

Talia puffed her cheeks and looked at Derek imploringly, but all Derek did was shrug his shoulders and say, “Papa’s right.”

“But Ken’s already out there!” Talia whined. “Uncle Scott and Aunt Kira are already outside and we’re still stuck in here! I can hear them!”

“That’s because Papa has lazy bones in the morning,” Derek explained easily. He smirked over his shoulder where Stiles’ eye twitched in annoyance.

“Me?” he asked. “You’re blaming this one on me? I hardly slept!”

Shrugging, Derek said, “You are the one who refused to get up when my alarm when off.”

“The sun wasn’t even up,” Stiles hissed, lips pursed indignantly. And with their daughter in the room, Derek knew he wouldn’t mention exactly why he hadn’t slept. Why they hadn’t slept.

Stiles’ unexpected literary success took him away from home more than either of them had ever expected it would—he was a full-time author and, consequently, a part-time parent. Derek didn’t mind how he raised their daughter alone more often than not, but the past few months had been particularly hard. Talia was getting older and becoming more aware of her Papa’s absence. Her feelings of abandonment, and her longing for Pack were getting harder for Derek to soothe alone. Derek only had so many vacation days, and with Talia in school, Stiles tended to go where neither of them could follow.

Sure, the Sheriff helped with Talia whenever he could, and sometimes Cora would fly into town just to help Derek out for a few weeks, but it wasn’t the same. Derek knew it, and most importantly, Talia knew it.

Stiles did, too. He did, and he hated it. Derek scented the misery on him every time he left for the airport, but once on a plane or in another city, he didn’t hear Talia’s howls or wipe her tears; Derek refused to burden him with it, but somehow Stiles knew, even without Derek breathing a word of how he struggled.

That perception was what brought them here to a secluded ski lodge in Colorado Stiles had reserved. Here, they unplugged and disconnected from all the influences and responsibilities normally pulling them apart. Stiles brought only his notebook and a few pens so he could write, and Derek didn’t bother with his laptop despite how overloaded his inbox would be when he returned home. Scott and Kira even came along with their son, Ken, for extra bonding and to help free up some alone time for Stiles and Derek.

In fact, Scott and Kira had done just that the night before—taken Talia so Derek could have his husband to himself—but Talia had forgotten her coat, and returned to the Hale-Stilinski cabin for it after breakfast. Neither of them had anticipated their daughter’s sudden arrival, and their lazy morning had been cut woefully short in favor of parental attention.

“Alright, alright,” Derek eased. He adjusted Talia’s hat and checked the buttons of her coat. “You’re good to go, kiddo. Have fun. Be safe. Don’t stray too far, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy!” she chirped, eyes bright and excited. She bounced on her toes so Derek would kiss her, which he did—a light kiss on the nose, then a quick scenting nuzzle. He opened the door for her, and she charged out into the snow with a whoop of joy.

Alone, Derek turned to his husband, who watched him with a soft, fond expression. His adoration wafted gently, and Derek knew he was loved.

“You gonna get dressed, Sourspouse?”

Rolling his eyes, Derek said, “I was a little preoccupied with making sure Talia was dressed. But I could stay this way, if it pleases you.”

Stiles’ laugh was hearty, the kind that had his back bowing and his cheeks flushing. “You’re such a dork,” he teased. “And as much as it would please me to have you in as little clothing as possible, I kinda feel bad dumping my kid on Scott and Kira. I mean, I’m already away so much. I feel like I should be out there with her, ya know?”

Derek smiled despite himself, struck, not for the first time, by Stiles’ utter devotion to him and their pup. If only he’d known—after the fire, after Laura, after everything—that he’d have this, he might have had more hope. If he’d known he would have Stiles, things might not have seemed so bleak for so many years.

“I love you,” he said abruptly, the words bursting through the damn of his teeth. And though his cheeks reddened from the suddenness of the declaration, Stiles’ easy smile and warm caramel eyes soothed his embarrassment.

“Love you, too,” Stiles answered. His snow boots were heavy on the wooden floor as he approached Derek, careful where they landed beside and between Derek’s socked feet. As he draped his arms over Derek’s shoulders, Derek’s wound around his waist. “I love you so much, Der, and I’m so sorry I’m always gone.”

“It’s okay,” Derek murmured, pressing his nose against his husband’s temple. “You always come back. For me. For Talia. You always come back.”

“And I always will,” Stiles promised, however unnecessary it was.

They swore vows in front of their friends and family. They were Talia’s fathers. Derek knew, down to the marrow of his bones, Stiles would always return; his wolf knew it, too. Derek’s waxing thoughts crashed when Stiles eased him into a kiss, slow and warm, like home.

“I’m gonna head out with the pup,” Stiles breathed against Derek’s lips. He smirked, and nuzzled their noses before pulling away and heading for the door. “Take your time getting ready. Join us whenever. We’ll be out there a while, I’m sure.”

Derek nodded, understanding too well his daughter’s love of snow, then chided himself for how his wolf whined at Stiles’ departure. He listened close to his husband’s boots swish through the fresh fallen powder, heard him call for Talia and their friends, and their answers back. This is good, Derek thought. This is perfect.

He rolled his shoulders and breathed deep in the quiet, then abandoned the foyer of the cabin in favor of the bedroom. Their time in the cabin was long enough to warrant unpacking, so instead of reaching for his suitcase under the bed, he found clothes from the provided wooden dresser. Despite how the drawers absorbed the scent of every cabin guest before them, the cacophony of smells was worth it for the sense of stability that came with tucking away their clothes.

Derek pulled a thermal long-sleeve shirt and ducked into it. He didn’t need to layer or bundle up to stay warm, but he did so to set the example for Talia, whose developing body hadn’t quite mastered adapting to the elements yet. So over the shirt went a light jacket, and then a thicker, warmer hooded coat. Wearing jeans and a pair of all-weather boots, he made his way through the cabin—their temporary home for their few weeks of peace—and stopped, suddenly, in the foyer.

“Talia? Not so far, baby!”

Stiles’ voice cut, sharp and worried, through the cabin. Derek hurried outside.

Their cabin sat alongside a large lake fed by a few rivers. The ice was thick enough to skate, but the night’s snowfall left the boundary between ground and lake difficult to distinguish. Certain areas near the river mouths were roped off to protect heedless guests, and given how well Talia and Ken had managed skating the day before, Derek hadn’t been too concerned. The building concern in Stiles’ voice and his scent, now that Derek was outside and caught it on the wind, had him second-guessing his decision.

“Talia!” Stiles called again.

“Papa, I’m fine!” she yelled back, and even turned to wave at him. Yards separated them, and Stiles fidgeted anxiously. “Ken and I skated here yesterday!” As if to illustrate her point, she twirled on her toes, enjoying sliding about even without blades on the bottoms of her feet.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself!” Stiles yelled. He took a few steps closer to the edge of the lake, and Derek slid in close to his side before he could take a misstep.

“I’ll heal!” Talia cheered, arms up in delight.

“She’ll be fine,” Derek assured, winding an arm around Stiles’ waist. “She was out there with Ken yesterday, like she said. It’s fine.”

“I don’t like it. She’s too far.”

Derek frowned, then nodded to where Scott, Kira, and Ken were skating on the ice. “Not really. Scott could get to her if she needed him.” Kira waved to where he and Stiles stood, so Derek waved back. “You know how she likes to be alone sometimes, have her own adventures.” He bumped shoulders with his husband, then said, “Come on. Let’s see what the McCalls are up to.”

Stiles shook his head. “You go ahead. I’ll watch Talia.”

“Stiles…”

“Derek, go.”

He winced at Stiles’ sharp tone, his wolf cowering a bit beneath its mate’s wrath. Pulling away from how casually he touched Stiles, he said, “Yeah, okay. Um, I’ll be over there. If you need me.”

With a heavy, annoyed sigh, Stiles said, “Der, I don’t want to fight. I really don’t. But I don’t like her out that far, and you’re okay with it, and I’m not going to argue with you on it in front of her or anyone else.” His expression was pleading, plush lips pouting and soulful brown eyes desperate for reasons Derek didn’t understand. Maybe because he was away so often, he felt he had to overcompensate in protectiveness. Maybe he, like Talia, just wanted to be near Pack, and even the meager distance between where Stiles stood and Talia played was just too much. In any case, Stiles said, “I’m sorry. I just…I’m gonna keep a closer eye on her, okay?”

“Okay,” Derek breathed. He cupped the back of Stiles’ neck as he kissed his forehead. “You don’t have anything to make up for.”

“I know,” Stiles said. “I…” He swallowed and fell silent. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

Derek left his husband with a nod, and rounded the lake nearer to the McCalls’ cabin and, subsequently, where they skated. He stood on the edge of the shore, where the fresh powder blurred the line between ground and ice. His wolf helped tell him where to step, how far he could go before he risked slipping. From the corner of his eye, he watched Stiles trek along the far side of the lake, closing in on where Talia pranced in her imaginary world.

A loud crack resonated through the air, like shattering glass.

Kira scooped Ken into her arms, pressing him against her protectively as she searched for whatever the sound heralded. Scott, alpha werewolf as he was, zeroed in on its source almost as fast as Derek: the far side of the lake. Nothing new could be found in the air, side from Stiles’ pungent and spiking fear.

“Talia?!” Stiles called. He picked up his pace to span the distance separating him from their daughter, panic barely contained in the swift, tight movements of his body.

“Papa…!” Talia sounded scared, hesitant, and her body froze in a typical fear response.

Derek and Scott share a glance before Derek jogged along the edge of the lake while Scott skated a more direct path across the ice.

With another crack, the ice beneath Talia crashed into the water below, taking her with it.

“TALIA!”

For Derek, time slowed, even as the wolf took over without his conscious consent. He shifted, eyes flaring, claws extending. He dropped to all-fours and charged through the snow. But he wouldn’t be fast enough. He couldn’t be fast enough. He was too far. He was too fucking far away.

Scott, too, was still crossing the lake, and if where Talia had stood, well away from the roped off areas, was weak, anywhere could be weak. Scott could just as easily plunge into the water, had to be careful not to. But it wasn’t his pup suddenly sucked into a frozen lake.

Stiles, however, was close enough, thank God. He bolted through the snow, nearly lost his footing on the ice, but regained it quickly without losing speed. He shed his jacket, his layers, leaving a trail of clothing in the wake of his sprint, then dropped to the ice and slide the last few yards to the hole Talia’s body had made.

Even while Derek continued to circle the lake to get as close to the scene as possible, Stiles hesitated for only a moment before pushing down on the dislodged chunk of ice and tumbling into the water after their daughter. He disappeared and Derek howled.

Scott reached the hole first, breaking hard and dropping to his knees at the edge. “Stiles?!” He shoved his arms into the water, feeling around desperately. “STILES!”

Derek was closer now, heart thudding with fresh panic. But then Stiles broke the surface of the water with gasp. In his arms was Talia, shivering and cold and crying loudly.

“Here!” Stiles coughed. “Scotty. Take her!”

Scott did, pulling his whimpering, shaking niece from the water and onto the thicker, sturdier ice. He stripped her of her freezing coat, and wrapped his warm, dry one around her to replace it.

Stiles, pale and trembling, scrabbled at the lip of the hole, and tried to hoist himself out like he would a swimming pool. Derek arrived just in time to hear the ice buckle beneath Stiles’ weight. He caught a single, terrifying glance of his husband’s face the exact moment he realized what happened. And then he was gone.

Stiles was gone.

“STILES!”

Derek dug his claws into the ice for traction, and tuned briefly to Scott. “Can you—”

“I’ve got her,” Scott said. “Go! Get Stiles.”

With a roar, Derek slammed his fist into the floating pieces of dislodged ice, caps that sealed the lake despite its weakness. He shattered it into pieces, hoping Stiles would see the opening the surface. But he didn’t. Stiles never came up.

Panic slowly consumed Derek. “What the fuck? Where is he?”

“The current,” Kira said as she arrived. Sans Ken, she collected Talia, who wailed, while Scott climbed to his feet. “He might have been taken by the current. Down river.”

Derek made to dive into the water, but Scott grabbed him by the sleeve. “You can’t go in there. You have no idea— ” He fell silent when they heard a dull thud. It repeated, faster, more urgently.

Knocking.

“Take Talia,” Derek ordered. Then, he scrambled across what solid ice there was to where the sound originated. “Stiles?! Stiles!” The knocking continued, faster still, as if answering. On his knees, Derek brushed aside the powder covering the ice, and there, beneath it, was his husband. Pale, terrified, but alive. “Can you hear me?”

Stiles nodded, strained as he held his breath. He knocked again on the ice with one hand, clinging to it desperately with the other. The loose fabric of his clothes and his hair fluttered quickly in the water; the current was strong, and Stiles’ grip was tenuous at best.

“I’m going to break the ice,” Derek said. “Just hold on.”

He slammed his balled fist into the ice. Stiles flinched away from the nearby impact, but he knocked on the nice again as if to tell Derek he was okay. The ice cracked, but didn’t break. So Derek hit it again. And again. And again. Every time, it cracked a little more, but didn’t give. He redoubled his efforts, struck harder and harder until the bones of his hands creaked.

With each passing moment, each of Derek’s failed attempts to break the ice, Stiles’ knocks weakened, slowed. His brows pinched with the effort to not breathe, despite the bubbles that eked steadily from his nose and mouth.

You know, when you’re drowning, you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out. It’s called involuntary apnea.

Derek remembered Stiles recounting how he’d explained the Nogitsune to Marin Morrell. It had been sometime while Stiles was in college, after they were well away from Beacon Hills.

It’s like, no matter how much you’re freaking out, the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head is exploding.

Another almighty smash, another feeble collection of cracks.

Then, when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore.

Frantic knocking drew Derek’s attention out of his memories, away from thinking about how his husband currently faced his deepest phobia. Through the ice, despite the cracks, Stiles tried to get his attention, and when Derek’s blazing eyes met Stiles’ brown, Stiles mouthed, I love you.

A stuttered breath filled Derek’s lungs, and he ignored the tears streaking his face. “I love you, too,” he said. “I’m getting you out of there.”

Not your fault. Stiles pounded the side of his fist against the ice for emphasis.

“I won’t lose you!” Derek growled.

Then, when you finally do it let in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore. It’s actually kind of peaceful.

With a resigned, soft smile, Stiles mouthed, It’s okay. He pressed his palm flat against the ice, even as his eyelids fluttered. Love you.

Derek rested his palm against Stiles’, the snow, the ice, the cold separating their hands. The other, with extended claws, raked the ice weakened with Derek’s pummeling fist. He clawed, desperate, choking on wrecking sobs, but Stiles’ smile never faltered. “Stiles, please. Hold on. I need you to hold on.”

The ice thinned beneath Derek’s efforts. Just a few more seconds and he could use brute force again.

Suddenly, Stiles’ face twisted in pain. His eyes clenched shut as he thrashed beneath the ice. His hands, weak and human and useless, pounded against the ice, his boots scrabbled for purchase, futile. Stiles heaved a sudden, deep, desperate gasp, and his eyes promptly rolled into the back of his head, his body limp.

Derek roared, the grief and terror and utter sadness welling inside him finally spilling over. He slammed his hand into the ice, forced it through despite how the bones shattered and splintered and…

The water was a numbing shock when his fist broke its surface. And once the initial hole was made, Derek swiftly chipped away at its weakened edges until it there was a big enough space to haul a body through. With his broken hand, Derek snared Stiles’ clothes in his claws and pulled him to the surface.

His husband was still, lifeless, face ghostly and lips blue. But somehow, buried beneath Derek’s heavy breathing and the singularity of his panic, he found the faintest, slowest rhythm. Steady. There. Stiles’ heart.

Growling through the pain and pressure, Derek clasped his hands over Stiles chest and began compressions; thirty of them. He saw Stiles take a breath, knew his chest was filled with water, but he tilted his head back and forced air into his lungs anyway. He repeated the cycle twice more before Stiles’ eyes snapped open, and he sputtered back to consciousness.

Derek eased him onto his side as he coughed and heaved lake water, his breath a weak, painful thing he struggled to catch. He rubbed his husband’s back until most of the water was coughed up; only when Stiles breathed a little easier did Derek let himself do the same. He pulled Stiles’ shivering body close and breathed against his temple. “You saved her,” he whispered. “You saved our daughter.”

“You saved me,” Stiles rasped.

“You’re the first one I’ve ever managed to save,” Derek answered. He flexed his healing hand until the bones snapped into place, then effortlessly gathered Stiles from the ice. His wolf needed its mate warm, safe, tended. Derek was too psychologically frayed to argue with it, though he knew he’d have to take Stiles to a hospital. Pneumonia could set in and—

“Hey,” Stiles said softly. He cupped Derek’s cheek and ran an icy thumb beneath his eye. Derek didn’t even know he was still crying. “I’m okay,” Stiles said. “You saved me. I’m gonna be okay, Derek.”

Whether it was his scent, or the pressing needs of Talia, Derek was grateful Scott and Kira merely acknowledged them as they returned to their cabin instead of engaging. He didn’t have the energy, and his wolf didn’t have the patience. Stiles was alive—they all knew that, and as long as Talia was cared for, Derek was satisfied. He all but kicked the cabin door down in his haste to get Stiles inside and warm. He helped him undress while he filled the tub.

“Derek?”

“You gave up on me,” Derek said, “You just…” He forced a breath. “You said it was okay. You said it wasn’t my fault. You…”

“It was okay,” Stiles argued, even as Derek helped him into the tub. He shuddered, whimpered involuntarily, and looked incredibly fragile as he huddled his knees to his chest. He rocked a bit, forcing along the sluggish blood in his veins, then continued, “Talia’s safe. That’s what matters. It wasn’t your fault, Derek.”

“I should have listened when you wanted her closer,” Derek said. He sat down beside the tub and pressed his forehead against the porcelain edge, tucking his face into his folded arm. His injured hand still throbbed, slow to heal. “I almost lost you both, today. I almost lost my pack again.”

“You’re on the right side of almost,” Stiles murmured. “She’s okay, and I’m still here.” He clasped the back of Derek’s neck with a chilly hand and gently squeezed. “Derek, we’re okay. Please. You saved me.” His soft laughter as a little manic, and Derek scented his shock subside. “You saved me.”

“I love you,” Derek said, resting his chin against his forearm to meet his husband’s gaze. He pressed his warm hand, so warm compared to Stiles’ icy skin, against the side of Stiles’ throat, tracing the line of his jaw with an absent stroke of his thumb. “I can’t lose you.”

“You didn’t,” Stiles said, leaning into the touch. He held onto Derek’s wrist, as if he feared drowning in the tub. “You won’t.”

Once Stiles’ was well beyond the threat of hypothermia, Derek collected Talia from the McCalls. Briefly, he updated them on Stiles’ condition, informing them he’d take him to the hospital in the morning, and thankfully, they didn’t keep him. Scott knew Derek needed to be with his family, his pack, and was infinitely compassionate. If Derek saw how Scott held Ken a little tighter, or hovered a little closer to Kira, he didn’t mention it.

Talia burst into tears upon seeing Stiles. “Papa!” She leapt from Derek’s arms and bolted through the cabin to the back bedroom, where Stiles laid bundled up in a nest of blankets. She abandoned all pretense as she scrambled onto the bed and into his arms. “Papa, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry, Papa.”

Derek trailed after her and stripped off her boots and coat, still damp from her icy plunge. Her clothes were dry at least, probably borrowed from Ken. Then, he climbed into the bed, bracketing Talia between him and Stiles.

Stiles gently carded his hand through Talia’s hair, soothing her wolf where she hadn’t mastered it. She snuggled close, and Stiles wrapped her with him in his blanket nest. He only shushed her apologies and held her through her tears. The discussion would come later, Derek knew, once they’d healed a bit from the trauma.

For now, Derek settled with his family in the cabin’s large, cozy bed. With Talia in Stiles’ arms, Derek curled around his husband and draped his long arm over the both of them, holding them fast where they were safest.

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