#mind you. between all of them Roscoe is the only one with a thumb | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dashielldeveron · 5 years ago

Text

Viper VI: Suppressio Veri

Summary: Reality continues to ruin your life. This jackassery will not stand.

Warnings: violence, swears, the law. Severe injury.

Ding.

You reached towards your holster and silenced your phone. “I’m here to see Judge Le,” you said, sliding the papers across the check-in counter. “She’s expecting me.”

The receptionist hardly glanced at you. “Have you visited her before?”

“Yes. She’s on the third floor. Room 310. I’m dropping off gifts from her co-workers,” you said, shifting your bag up your shoulder.

Ding.

“She should be awake by now. I doubt you’ll get much conversation out of her, though; she only just got out of her second surgery this morning.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, “and I won’t be long. I’ll just be glad to see her again.”

“Go on, then,” she said, “Elevator’s broken. Take the stairs.”

You nodded and strode in their direction—not directly, though, because Judge Le wasn’t your only target this time at the hospital. You were doing a run checking up on the doctors and admins who took care of members of the mob and kept it under wraps. A thank you, if you will. Judge Le was going to be the recipient of direct evidence you were going to deliver regarding an upcoming trial—and you’d had time between the Davey’s run and physically seeing Ms. Pham today, so you’d picked up more biscotti than usual for the doctors. Security and common courtesy, really.

Ding.

And Tom wouldn’t stop fucking texting you, yet he wasn’t quite saying anything. You unlocked your phone.

Tom: You’re late. I thought I told you I wanted you in my office at 9:00 sharp?

Tom: Where are you?

Tom: I want you now.

Stopping in your tracks, you (with a rather dry throat) twiddled your thumbs uselessly over the keys before typing out a response.

You: Chill. I’m at Central Hospital. What do you need?

You stowed your phone away, determined to make him wait, and you swung open the door to the stairs. The doctors’ break room was on the second floor, so you’d run by that first. You counted five stairs before checking your notifications.

Tom: You. In person.

You: What do you need me to check out?

Tom: Give me a second, and I’ll show you.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Second floor door, here we are.

Ding.

Does he not have anything else to do? He actually had a meeting scheduled at 9:00 this morning, so that was why you weren’t there. Tom should be meeting with the D’Aleo underboss, but he apparently wasn’t, if he had the time to text you back. You opened his message, and your heel curled in, making you stumble.

Tom: Don’t be gentle with me.

[image attached]

Tom had sent you a picture of another polaroid, this one of you and Tom exiting the sewer, both grimy as all get out. However, he had taken a picture of it lying flat on the edge of his desk, and the bottom third of it showed his clenched left fist resting on his upper thigh, his pants so tight that you could make out the hem of his tucked-in shirt through them, and his belt pulled snugly around his hips with the end unlooped, probably intentionally loosely curled around half of his cock—the view you would have if you were resting your chin on his shoulder and looked down.

You leant against the wall outside the break room and held your phone to your chest. Fuck. Fffffuck. This manipulation, this—charming—of you. 1) He didn’t know you knew about it. 2) What exactly did he want? You didn’t have any ulterior motives.

3) You wanted it. Oh, God, did you want it. 4) But you wanted Tom to treat you like this out of genuine feelings, not to get something out of you. So, 5) you couldn’t exactly respond well, because you’d be doing exactly what he wanted you to, except 5a) you didn’t haven any information he wanted [5b) except where you lived, your social security, etc.].

6) You were a little insulted that he thought he could charm you through basic shit like hot dominance and a pic of his lap. 7) You hated that it was working.

So, 8) how do you handle this?

Mulling it over, you allowed yourself to leave the letters to the doctors on payroll and to arrange the biscotti (traditional, lemon wedding, and chocolate almond) and crumiri in the doctors’ lounge before you responded.

You: Am I supposed to be impressed? I can’t make that out for shit.

Tom: Come back to Osseous to get a better look.

You: I’m busy, Holland.

Tom: Oh, yeah? With what?

You snapped a picture of the biscotti, pausing to bite out of a crumiri, and held it up in front of the rest.

You: Want a bite?

You moved to stow away your phone, but he responded immediately.

Tom: More than one.

Time to stop. Time to fucking stop. Shoving the crumiri into your mouth, you left the doctors’ lounge, fuming. You had made it halfway back to the stairs before he sent you another text, and you scowled, stopping in front of an open hospital room and tapping your heel with aggression.

Tom: It’s time to stop fucking around and come home, V.

Your fingernails tapped against the screen as you tried to figure out what to say, and from the open hospital room, you heard a weak voice call your name—your real fucking name.

Hand on your knife, you treaded lightly into the hospital room, completely void of personal effects, where on the bed lay a body heavily shrunken by severe burns. Months ago, you would have winced and shied away, but now, you merely grew closer towards the red and white flesh, twisted, scarred, and barely healing—second and fucking third degree, oh, my God, primarily around the upper body, and disfiguring almost to the point of non-recognition the face of—oh, gross.

Your old boss, Polson, scowled at you from his hospital bed and pressed a button so that it tilted into a sitting position. Tendons around the bones in his hand quivered when he did, and he let out a deep breath, like the action had been too much for him. “If it isn’t the bitch who left my firm without even a two-week notice. What do you want?”

If that’s how it’s going to be. “What happened to you, Mr. Polson?”

“You weren’t hard to replace. There are thousands of desperate receptionists out in New York, but it pissed me off to go through the hiring process again,” he said, “Got someone who doesn’t complain, though.”

You crossed your arms. “That poor woman. Why are you in the hospital?”

“I bet you’re making your new boss’s life a living hell, right? Unless you’re working for yourself now, which would make sense why I haven’t heard a damn thing about you.”

Ding.

Polson glared at your hip, and you silenced your phone again. “My new boss can be demanding.”

“Is that him?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“You bothered to sleep with him, right?”

“Mr. Polson,” you said, “You, of all people, should know that I will never compromise professionalism and justice for the sake of my own personal advancement or enjoyment, and I will never use anything other than my brain to move forward. With all due respect, sir—” Shit, you shouldn’t’ve called him that; old habits, you guessed. “—I’d like to move on to why you’re lying in a pathetic, empty hospital room, looking like you’ve been frying in bacon grease for the past four hours. Care to elaborate?”

Polson shifted in his bed and tugged his sheets farther up his chest. “Someone lit my house on fire. I was sleeping. Didn’t realise until it reached my bed.” He licked his lips and the burnt skin surrounding them.

Ding.

“How do you know it was arson? You could’ve left your stupid gas stove on—”

“Roscoe’s and Jennings’s apartments burnt down this past two weeks, too,” said Polson, “Or are you too big and important nowadays to remembers your co-workers?”

No, you remembered. Roscoe worked with child custody cases, and Jennings was Polson’s co. Jennings liked talking about superhero movies with you, and Roscoe was the first one to show you the town when you moved here. Roscoe was the one who had helped you move into your own apartment, along with another co-worker, Harriet, who lived below you. “Someone’s…targeting members of your staff? You don’t think they’re accidents?”

Ding.

“Firefighters say all the fires started at the front door,” said Polson, “and whenever I get my hands on whoever did this fucking shit—” He made a choking motion, his hand shaking with tension. “We’re all staying at a hotel until we can find new places, but you know how the market is.”

Ding.

Nodding, you moved to leave, but you, with doubt and pity, backtracked to give Polson a pack of leftover biscotti. He wouldn’t look at you.

Tom: You do as you’re told, understand?

Tom: If you don’t get your ass to Osseous within the next thirty minutes, you’re on sentry duty in Brooklyn for a month.

Tom: I don’t care about traffic. The deadline stands. Come here.

Tom: I get it. You’re ignoring me because of how much of a hardass I’m being, yeah? Well. Show me you can follow orders, and I’ll be a lot kinder.

You: Say please.

***

Tom wasn’t in his office, even though his schedule said he’d be there, so you took the elevator to the lower floors and checked them, culminating with your coming to a halt when you stepped into a conference room permeated with smoke and sweat. You wiped your nose with the back of your hand.

“Viper,” came Tom’s voice through the haze, “Good of you to finally show up.” He must be at the head of the conference table, judging from the direction of his voice; how many others were present? Motion, motion—from both sides, multiple pairs of hands, cigars, cufflinks—the suits. Funding. They weren’t supposed to be here until tonight (that meant there were six of them, because Taylor cancelled). You rubbed the fog off your watch—they were hours early, and you were late for Ms. Pham.

You got out your phone to text her that you’d run into a snag, but Tom’s voice came through the smoke, sharper this time. “Ah, ah, Viper, put that thing away. You don’t need it here.”

You glanced at Tom, his figure becoming clearer as he waved the fog away. “Try to stop me.”

The air thinned as the suits fell silent. “Is that a challenge?” Tom asked coldly, snuffing out his cigar in the ashtray. “You’ve always had a mouth on you—and I can think of a few ways to shut you up.”

Laughter from the suits. One of them (Cristo, from the files) grabbed your hand and jerked you towards him, one of your hips pressed against his shoulder. “A girl like you shouldn’t be so disobedient,” he said—and when he tried to nuzzle his nose against your hip, you flinched out of his grip and struck the back of his head.

“Don’t infantilise me,” you said, brows downturned and heat rushing to your face, “A girl is a child, punk. That’s not me. And I’m not here for you to touch.”

When another suit reached for your hand, Tom said, “Enough.” He was staring you down, his eyes not quite angry, but you couldn’t label what it was exactly. He beckoned you with two fingers, his golden watch slipping down his wrist and into his shirtsleeve.

Tom yanked you down to his level (his hand was warm from holding the cigar) and said into your ear, spit flicking onto you from the harsh consonants. “Listen. I can’t have these people all over you, and these morons are old-fashioned. If they see a woman dominate me, they’re not gonna back me anymore.”

“Don’t you trust me?” you said under your breath.

“You’re not the one I don’t trust,” said Tom, and he licked his lips, the tip of his tongue grazing the shell of your ear. “You know I’m on your side, right? You’ve got to do this for me.”

Hell to the fucking no. If Tom thinks you’re going to sacrifice your dignity and reputation that you’ve built over the past year, then he’s got to—

“Please.”

Oh. Oh, no. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. You held your breath for a moment, and then you said aloud, shrinking away from him, “Yes, sir.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Tom loudly, shoving your hand away, “If you think that was bad, just wait and see what I’m gonna do to you once I get you alone. Go wait in my office for me.”

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding once, and you skirted out of the room, a final laugh from a suit erupting before you shut the door.

What now? You guess…you guessed you go wait in his office.

Once there and mindlessly assigning via email capos territory scouting overnight, you had time to think. That whole interaction was weird as hell. Who were these guys Tom was keen on keeping an image with? They weren’t anyone extraordinary. Just businessmen. Yeah, there were loads of people you had to work with in this business who didn’t treat people right, let alone women, whom they didn’t consider to be people—it was like they were straight out of Tolstoy’s The Kreutzer Sonata: misogynistic, violent men apt to jump to conclusions about deception and sex.

Was this a sex thing? Were they under the impression Tom was fucking you? (You shook yourself; the bluntness of that thought shocked you. Sleeping with. Under the impression Tom was sleeping with you.) You supposed that most of them would think that a don would only be keeping a woman around for sex, but as Viper, you were clearly Not the Mistress. So, why now?

Tom had better have a hell of an explanation.

And then seeing Polson again, all burnt and pathetic, made your stomach lurch. That man—you didn’t want to say that anyone deserved to burn, but Polson made you want to bend what you usually thought. The burns, it seemed, calmed him the fuck down and made him a lot nicer, but his nice was still not how you deserve to be spoken to. You didn’t like having a part of your old life resurface. Hearing your real name said aloud made your heart palpitate. Polson still didn’t respect you and called you a bitch first off, so why did you give him…? He didn’t deserve that. Polson’s a jerk. He shouldn’t…whatever.

You started typing a reply to Haz’s email. Told him that it’s taken care of. That the men killed off today would disappear legally. That you’ve got it under control.

Three fires connected to your former co-workers. Should you be concerned? You’d check the files on arsonists later, yeah, when all of this was over. See who’s out and about. You’ve already got one pattern, but maybe there’s another.

Hours ticked by. Fucking hours. At least there wouldn’t be much plant recording to listen to tonight. You advised a group of soldiers and their leading capo about their boundary crossing mission tonight (“Take the train; although the tickets mark your presence physically, fewer people are likely to be watching underground.”) and dug out the arsonist files. No one with a pattern had been released from prison in the past two years.

You jumped when your phone rang, but thank God; it was only Zendaya talking about a series of screeching noises coming from the sewers in the heights, and she just wanted to report it to you. She also made sure you logged Harrison’s latest injury that he hadn’t written on the last write-up (his ankles are going to be fucked up when he’s older). You thanked her.

When the clock hit 5:00, you stopped doing mob work and moved onto an Epiales article. You were ahead of your deadlines by three weeks, now, so you didn’t really concentrate too hard. You wrote half of another article and decided to check that fake-o’s twitter account. The past few days had been strangely apolitical.

Epiales (@Epiales): Pasărea în văzduh.

[image]

Epiales (@Epiales): L'Oiseau dans l'espace.

[image]

Epiales (@Epiales): Bird in Space.

[image]

Each image was a new angle of Bird in Space. You’d never heard of it. Apparently, it was a marble and bronze series of sculptures by Constatin Brâncuși, but only the bronze ones had been posted. But it was, like, parts of the bird instead of the whole thing, mostly looking like single feathers on stands. The captions had been the title in Romanian, French, and then English. The sculptures themselves were actually in the city, housed at the Met and MOMA.

What the fuck.

Epiales (@Epiales): A night in. The world out.

[image]

This picture was, strangely, a normal Instagram-type picture of someone’s (a liar’s) coffee table, with an open wine bottle, a glass, and—oh, how fucking clever—a copy of Catch Me If You Can propped up against four corks. Dumbass. You wrote a note to review the plot. Maybe this identity thief is also into forgery? Maybe that’s a stretch.

Four corks, one bottle. Why…why the fuck would that be featured? Are other bottles off-screen? Oh, there’s an update.

Epiales (@Epiales): Just heard from Central Hospital. James Polson has passed away. Tragic. Burns that severe can often turn deadly.

Your stomach plummeted.

That’s…that’s a little too personal for your tastes. A little too close. You locked your phone and tucked it between the cushion and the arm of the chair, and you brought your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them.

Your identity thief was the arsonist, wasn’t he?

Shit.

Fucking fuck, did that mean he knew your real name and who you were? He hadn’t known when he wrote that note for you and Tom to retrieve Isadora (you felt a pang in your chest at the thought of her), but, you guessed, you’re not perfect. You could have slipped somewhere, and he could have found you out. But when? You’d been scrupulous. If you fucked up somewhere, it had to be minor, something so small that you wouldn’t notice it. Who the fuck are you dealing with? God. Where’s your panic medicine? You felt a panic attack coming on.

It’s at the bottom of your bag, baby. Just dig through your shit—that’s right, under your laptop, your flash drive pocket, wallet—you’re doing so well, honey; that’s it—where’s the damn pill bo—

“Oh, thank fuck, Viper. You’re still here,” Tom said as the door slammed open into the wall, shaking the nearby frame, “I thought you might leave after I treated you like that.” C’mon, unscrew the cap slowly; nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong. Is there a liquid besides liquor in here?

“But I have to say, you did all right. They licked it up, so the rest of it went well.”

Guess you’ll have to dry swallow them. Fuck, you could never get used to the scratching of the pill capsules as you choked them down your throat.

Tom raised an eyebrow when you threw back the pills. “Need anything?”

You swallowed again, but your throat was too dry. Focus on your breathing, honey. You can’t hyperventilate now.

“The fuck’s wrong with—?”

You gasped and cleared your throat. “Fuck all the way off, Holland.”

Tom’s face snapped into a grimace with hard, cold eyes, and he reached behind himself to lock the door. “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“You,” you said, tossing the bottle back into your bag, “You can’t fucking behave around me like you did down there. I don’t deserve that.”

“Then what do you deserve?” He crossed his arms and leant with most of his weight on the door.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you. I don’t have to explain anything,” you said, and you closed your laptop and slid it into its case, “I have the right to say no. I’m not your dog. But I’m still human, in case you haven’t fucking noticed.” You looped your portfolio closed and slid everything into your rucksack. “And I will not stand for the way you’ve been treating me.”

Tom scoffed. “I’ve been more than kind.”

“Not—not really.” You slung your rucksack over your shoulder. “You’re trying to manipulate me into something. The way you’ve been talking—all this, the inflections, the innuendo—I don’t want it if it’s not real.”

Tom moved away from the door as you approached it, his arms still crossed but his gaze on his shoes.

“You think I can’t spot a change in behaviour?” You think I don’t have a listening device in your cactus? “Think again, bucko. I’m not gonna tolerate maltreatment, jackassery, or anything I don’t deserve.” You gripped the doorknob and turned it, but you didn’t pull it forward. “I cordially invite you to braid your rectum, since you’ll need something vaguely aesthetically interesting to draw attention while you’ve got your head up your ass.”

You paused to swallow again, and Tom took the opportunity to ask quietly, “Are you gonna be in for work tomorrow?”

Rubbing your eye, you took a deep breath and a moment. “Yeah,” you said, “I’ll be in. Just don’t talk to me until after lunch.”

Tom nodded once, and you eased the door shut behind you.

***

You took a taxi home; you couldn’t bear the subway tonight. You just couldn’t. You leant your forehead against the cold glass and ignored the cabbie’s attempts at conversation, your eyes fluttering shut (the city lights still flashed through your eyelids).

At least you still had your job.

Well, it’s not like he could get rid of you at this point, anyway.

Whatever. It was all so fucking exhausting. If Tom were completely honest with you, that would take a load off of your shoulders. You don’t need near-gaslighting anywhere in your life right now; you needed someone in your corner. You supposed that was part of why you were exhausted: you didn’t have a local support system for your mental health. Sure, you had Dr. Prine on speed dial, but she was miles and miles away; Grace at the women’s centre needed more help than you did, and Ms. Pham didn’t seem to have feelings. Zendaya was cool, but you didn’t exactly know the nature of her relationship with Harrison and whether or not you could talk to her honestly without her relaying some of the information back to Haz or Tom.

Haz? Forget it.

Tom, though, he really screwed with your mind. You hated it. You could see the potential in him to be your main confidante, if only he would do the same with you (You were on a level of that already, but somehow, even though you had a lot of his dirt, it was like it wasn’t personal to him, like it held no weight. Dumbass). Tom must relax around Haz, right? They were friends before the mob, so there’s got to be some sense of genuine comradery about him, right?

He can’t be all bad. He’s got a dog, and pretty much everyone speaks to a dog in a high pitched voice.

You brought your knees to your chest, your heels on the edge of the torn leather, and you scrunched your eyes shut more tightly—the lights were getting brighter and harder to ignore; you dipped your head between your knees.

The cab driver gave a low whistle. “Holy motherfucking shit,” he said, and you dragged yourself up to look out—as he came to a stop.

No. No, it couldn’t—fucking fu—your apartment building was on fire. The flames blazed from a corner room on the third story and licking up towards yours—your own damn apartment. The worst of it was coming from the…the apartment right below yours. Harriet.

Paying the cabbie took way too fucking long, and you grabbed your bag and immediately dumped them on the sidewalk; where was Harriet? Moreover, where was your fucking cat?

You were turned away from the entrance. You manoeuvred your way through other tenets, calling for Trout, skinning your knees when your dropped to the pavement to scan the bushes for her, and by the time you found Harriet, your face was all red and blotchy, and the front of your shirt was soaked.

“Oh, my God. It’s good to see you safe,” said Harriet, gripping your shoulders and also crying, “I just got off the phone with my mom, and. And I don’t know what to do. The fire department said they’d be here soon, but it’s fucking five o’clock traffic, and—”

“Have you—” You hiccupped. “Have you seen a cat?”

Harriet shook her head. “Want me to help?”

Harriet looked so sincere and willing, with her wide eyes and strong voice, even with her hair already in its bonnet for the night. Harriet had always been kind when you’d worked with her; she’d always been—so why wasn’t she already in your corner? Why had you shuffled her off for the most part?

You looked her in the eyes and then back up at the burning building, your life flaking away in wallpaper ashes. Her life, too. “No,” you said, “You have enough on your mind right now. It looks like the fire started in your apartment, anyway, so there’s got to be a lot of damage you’re gonna have to deal with.”

Harriet nodded. “How’d you know it started in mine?”

“I—” You closed your mouth and frowned. “I didn’t. Did—did you leave the oven on, or?”

“I was downstairs in the laundry room facetiming Roscoe,” she said, “We started dating since you left, by the way. I was down there forever, but I can’t remember if I left anything on or any incense burning or anything.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, snapping your head in the direction of low movement, but it wasn’t Trout. “Have you heard about Polson yet?”

“Polson?” Harriet crossed her arms, her phone in her armpit. “No, why?”

“I’ll tell you later. You still have my number, right? I—you should find the landlord, talk to him about this. Ask him about renters’ insurance. I’ve got to—I’m gonna keep looking for my cat.”

“You do that,” she said, “I’ll check up on you in a few hours, all right?”

“Yeah,” you said, “Thank you.”

She walked off towards the admins, and you stood frozen for a minute, your eyes glazed over, until a spark flitted down to your arm. You flinched and swatted at it, your gaze falling to a smoking leaf at your feet.

You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?

Backtracking to your bag on the sidewalk, you found your found and found his contact with shaky thumbs. It rang once.

“Viper?” His background was silent.

“Tom?” You forced your jaw to stop quivering. He can’t hear your fear.

“It’s me,” he said, and his voice sounded more urgent. “What’s wrong? What do you need?”

Fuck it. “You. I need you,” you said, your eyes watering again, “Are you that far out in your commute? I need you to come to—to my apartment. It’s on fi—fire, Tom.”

You heard him slap the leather of his chauffer’s seat, a familiar gesture for him to pay attention. “Address, now.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you if you’re that far out—”

“Address.”

You gave it to him, and he cursed with his mouth away from the speaker before barking it to his driver. “I’ll be there as soon as I possibly can, okay? I want you to stay there. Can you do that for me, V?”

You nodded, remembered he couldn’t see you, and said, “Yes. I’ve, uh. Thank you. Thanks, Tom.”

“Stay there. I won’t be long.”

“Okay. I’ve got to keep looking for my cat, so, um, I’ll be close. See you in a bit.”

“See you.”

You hung up and wiped your eyes. What’s done is done.

You were searching the bushes on your hands and knees when his car pulled up and parked behind the firefighters. When he tapped your back, you jolted and gave a shout, but you recovered slightly and shifted back to sit on your knees.

“Hey,” said Tom, crouching next to you, his tie still tight around his neck.

“Hey,” you said, “Her name is Trout, if you don’t remember, and she’s beautiful and stubborn, and I love her, and I can’t find her.”

“Is she in the building?”

“They wouldn’t let me inside to look.”

“If we don’t find her, someone else will. Does she have a collar?”

“Why would a cat whose entire world is a two-room apartment have a collar? No, I mean,” you said, rubbing your nose with the back of your hand, “She doesn’t.”

“Hey, that snark,” said Tom, “That’s how I know you’re gonna be okay. You haven’t lost it. We’re gonna find her before we leave.”

He let you cry in peace while the two of you searched, sirens and the water hoses too loud for further conversation, anyway. He couldn’t even hear your sob of relief when you discovered Trout licking drops from a hose faucet on the opposite side of the building, and you scooped her up and kissed her little forehead.

Tom scratched her neck before directing you towards his car, jogging back to your bag himself. But you stood outside his car, staring at your reflection in the window. Part of the building groaned and collapsed behind you, thousands of sparks flying upwards.

Your mind blanked.

That was your whole fucking life.

Crumbling to the ground.

Holy shit.

Where do you go from here?

You supposed the answer literally was the closest hotel, which was that stupid Holiday Inn, but it probably didn’t allow pets, so you’d have to go farther, which means a higher fare for the taxi, but now you need to conserve as much money as possibly to find a new place, and since Polson couldn’t even find one, then you were probably sunk, which meant—

“Were you waiting for me to open the door for you, darlin’?” Tom jogged to his car and opened the door to the backseat. “Go ahead and get in. It’s gonna be okay, I swear.”

Staring at him for a beat, you stiffly climbed into the back and released Trout once Tom had thrown in your bag and slammed the door shut behind him. Trout was freaked out by the sudden movement of the car, but once it became constant (or as near constant as it could get in New York traffic), she began exploring the car, starting with burrowing under the driver’s seat.

You wanted to touch him. If there were ever a time for it, it was now, when you were weak and gross and now possibly destitute. He’s seen you cry, now, so it’s like he’s seen too much of you. No one ever sees you cry, and you just wanted for once to have physical comfort from someone? You’ve never had someone there for that sort of thing, and damn it, you wanted Tom to hold you.

His suit’s wet and dirty, and he’s stuffed his tie into a pocket. He tapped his fingers on the leather seat between you as he scrunched his face up, lost in thought. Tom glanced at you, and his face softened, his eyes flickering from your blotchy face to your trembling hands. “All right, you’ve made deductions. Tell me what you think.”

“I don’t—” Deep breath. “I’m unsure I can talk right now.” What to say except Hold my hand, bitch?

“V, I swear, when you wake up tomorrow, you’re gonna be all numb. You’re gonna try to distance yourself from reality. I know you will. So, please,” said Tom for the second time that day, “Tell me what’s going on in that whirling brain of yours.”

You ran your tongue over your lower lip. “Is there any water in here? I haven’t—thanks,” you said, accepting the water bottle when Tom pulled it out from under his seat, “I haven’t ingested anything since this morning. I’m running on empty.”

“Bet you are. Take your time,” he said, leaning on his elbow against the window, “There’s no rush. We’ve got a bit of a drive.”

Nodding, you watched Trout loaf on the seat between the two of you. She let out a low meow.

You placed a hand on her back and scratched her lightly. “I really was angry at you this afternoon. How you spoke to me. How you made me wait.”

You paused to take a sip from the bottle, and Tom simply watched you, his gaze slipping to your neck when you swallowed. “But other stuff happened today that’ve put me on edge. I’m, uh, I’m not doing too hot right now.” Really, now? “I went to the hospital earlier, and you were texting me all those—strange things, which were already unnerving me. But then I ran into my old boss. From the law firm. He said some pretty awful things to me. Reprehensible, really.”

“I’m gonna fucking murder him,” said Tom, shifting in his seat.

You reached out a hand to his shoulder and pushed him back down, letting your touch linger (although there was still ash on his jacket). “He’s already dead.”

His lips parted. “What?”

“Polson was in the hospital for burns. Someone had burnt his house down. Told me it happened to some of my old co-workers, too.”

Licking his lips, Tom said, “Then your apartment building was arson. They knew about you.”

“I don’t think so,” you said, working through it yourself, “One of my co-workers lived beneath me. She’d recommended the building to me in the first place when I moved here, and although there’s not an official report yet, I’m pretty sure it started in her place. I’m not certain, though; I’m judging by the fact that her apartment was completely doused in flames and that fire climbs. It hadn’t engulfed mine entirely yet.”

Tom folded his arms and unbuckled; he turned to face you and crossed his leg over the other at the ankle. “You said Polson was dead.”

Sighing, you picked up Trout and put her in your lap. She did not want to settle. “I was doing research while I waited in your office. I ended up on that fake Epiales’s twitter account, and he announced it. Whoever the fake Epiales is is probably behind the arson, too. Targeting Polson’s employees, for some reason. I don’t know; I haven’t thought about it too hard yet. It was too personal for me, uh, to handle.”

“How do you know that?” Tom said, leaning in, “How do you know they’re the same? How do you even know that Epiales is fake, anyway?”

“Grammar. Syntax. The fact that the real Epiales wrote that it wasn’t him on his website?”

“You said that last time. What’s the real reason?”

You closed your eyes. “Please, Tom. Please trust me on this. I just know, okay? I can’t elaborate.”

“Will you eventually?”

You opened them. His face seemed relaxed, but his knuckles were pinched white. “I can’t promise you that. Please, trust me on this one thing without explanation.”

Tom glared at you, the city night lights not even reflecting in his eyes, and he dropped his arms, moving to tap his fingers on his thigh. He edged a hint closer to the window. “I can do that,” he said, smiling too widely.

He’s lying.

He’s so lying.

He’s still going to be constantly vigilant, waiting for you to let something slip. You cannot afford to let your guard down around him, even now that you’re beyond vulnerable: no house, no possessions, and no composure. You’ve got to be even more careful, now.

“Oh, and Viper?” Tom didn’t even look away from the window. “If they’re targeting people associated with your old workplace, don’t you think you had better cut all ties with them? Erase evidence you were connected?” He put your phone on the seat between you.

“I guess so.”

Deleted pictures. Emails. Harriet’s cheerful picture smiled up at you from her contact. She’d offered to check on you tonight.

You blocked her number.

There, you thought, setting your phone aside, That’s the end of my old life. Completely gone. Trout squirmed out of your grip, and she stumbled over to his lap and headbutted his lower chest. Now my life is nothing but Tom fucking Holland.

And there’s nowhere else to run to, only him.

Out of all the thoughts churning inside, one question bubbling to the surface, and another, you bottled-up.

“Where are we going?”

Were you safe?

***

suppressio veri: suppression of the truth.

***

taglist: @hollandroos @starksparker @pparkerwrites @qxeen-of-hearts @stealth-spiderr @presidentbttrflyfreak @parsleysbaby @madmadmilk @paradoxparker @bi-writes @astronomyparkers @bornsickbutilove @infamous-webhead @laurfangirl424 @softspideys @gryfinpuffs @plethoraofpuppies @laucontrerasv @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @spiderboytotherescue @cassiopeiaskies

#tom holland #tom holland/reader #tom holland fanfic #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland fic #mob au #mob tom #Mob!Tom #mob!tom holland #viper au #dash it all

41 notes · View notes

mysamcedesmadness · 6 years ago

Text

So, What Are We Doing This Summer?

It was called to my attention that Henry's age was confirmed as 17 in either the Frittle episode or his birthday episode (I've not repeatedly watched those, so I didn't remember), which would either put them in their senior year or put Henry as a graduating 18 year old next year, which does happen, so I'll go with that.

Also, for some reason, all of the italics and bolds and such disappear whenever I paste to Tumblr. I honestly don’t feel like redoing tonight, but the ffnet post has them, for various emphasis on words and stuff, if that’s a better read for you.

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13274210/7/So

So, What Are We Doing This Summer?

There was no Sweet Sixteen thing that she wanted to do. To be fair, her parents wanted to throw her something and invite her friends over, but she just wanted a nice dinner, some cake, maybe a museum trip and to look over college packets. Last birthday, she went to a show that she wanted to see with her friends, but it was such a hectic night that she almost didn't get to see it.

That's how plans with the friends tended to go. Unexpected and hectic. So, Sweet Sixteen, she was doing things with her parents! And that was all that there was to it!

"But, what about the time WE want to spend with you?" Jasper asked.

She furrowed her eyebrows and handed him a pamphlet. "Here. Underline cons in red, highlight pros in pink."

"What is this?"

"College brochures."

"Why are you looking at college brochures, we still have more than a year of high school left?"

She laughed, "And I very well can't figure out what schools to apply to after graduation. Senior year student council has so much to do for all of those senior ceremonies, I want to make sure I've given myself time to think about where I'm going."

"Why not Swellview University?" He wondered.

"It's on my list, but not my top choice. I want an HBCU or an Ivy League school."

"I'm gonna go right there to Swellview U. It's a good school!"

"I'm sure it's great. It's just not exactly what I want," she said and they heard the sound of Captain Man and Kid Danger coming down the tubes.

She smiled at them as they approached, resuming some kind of debate. "Dude, there's no way that a giant pancake could best a giant waffle. The waffle has ridges!" Henry fussed, then kissed her on the cheek.

"What are you two even TALKING about?"

"Animated and animatronic breakfast foods," Ray said, popping gum into his mouth. "Henry thinks that sausage would be more of a romantic than bacon and that a giant waffle could defeat a giant pancake in a fight to the death, covered in butter and syrup!"

"HOW do these subjects get started?" Charlotte wondered as they changed back.

"What about a crepe?" Jasper wondered.

Henry and Ray both laughed and repeated, "Crepe?"

"Oh yeah, a giant CREPE can fight!" Ray taunted.

Henry added, "Guess it's gonna just roll up to the scene, since he's gonna lose his innards if he steps up." The duo fell on each other laughing. Jasper sighed and shook his head.

"I'm not sure why you entered their weird little world."

"Third Wheel Syndrome has me sensitive, I think."

Henry took a seat next to Charlotte and asked Jasper, "What do you mean?"

"Since the two of you got together, I'm feeling left out," Jasper admitted.

"How? I just spent four hours stuck in a vat of scrambled eggs and country gravy. You and Char have been here going through…" he picked one up from in front of Charlotte and she sucked her teeth. "College brochures." He set it down, "Jasp you're leaving for college too?"

"No. I'm marking pros and cons for Charlotte. I'm going to Swellview University. We talked about this."

"I know! I was gonna be super upset if you were gonna run off on me. Bad enough she will be." He pointed a thumb to Charlotte.

"What happens when that happens?" Jasper wondered.

"It's at least a year in the future. We haven't even discussed what we're doing this summer," Charlotte said. The three were quiet for a moment. Ray and Schwoz were talking among themselves a few feet away.

Henry broke the collective silence between their trio by asking, "So, what are we going to do this summer"

"There's my birthday.." Jasper said then squinched his face and shook his head, "You weren't talking to me, were you?"

"I was talking to you both. Anybody have plans already?"

"I never have plans," Jasper said, almost certain that Henry was definitely only talking to Charlotte.

She said, "Same old same old for me. Summer Youth Program in June. Beginning of July trip with my parents. The only thing different this year is I'm going to add three or four campus tours of whichever colleges have the least cons and most pros."

"Need company?" Henry wondered. She furrowed her eyebrows and actually looked up at him. "Just to you know, make sure that you enjoy yourself despite the work."

"I love college tours. I'll enjoy myself," she said.

Henry pouted, "Fine." She looked questioningly at the sky about his salty tone, but left it alone. Henry sighed, "Jasper, do you think you'll want to spend any time with me this summer?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" Jasper cheered. Charlotte rolled her eyes. She hadn't said that she wasn't going to spend any time with him.

In fact, her visits would be four weekends from the entire summer. Her Youth Program was on Thursdays. Her trip was two weeks. Aside from that, she was pretty sure she'd see both of these clowns every other summer moment. She'd tuned out the boys making plans without her whenever she heard Jasper declare, "It's gonna be super hard for us to do these things whenever you and Charlotte are married and stuff."

Henry shook his head and Charlotte chimed in, "Whenever what?"

Jasper reminded her, "Remember that whole hashtag Henlotte thing?"

"That was a joke, Bro," Henry said, laughing a little uncomfortably. "Nobody actually thought that I was proposing or that we were gonna be kissing. That's why it was so hilarious."

"Yeah, but you are kissing. You kiss a lot. You're together. Charlotte's thinking about her upcoming colleges before junior year end. Do we really believe she's not thinking beyond that?" Henry's head turned sharply and quickly to Charlotte.

She scoffed and said, "Don't look so panicked. As it turns out, I've been focused enough on my educational future that I haven't been circling anything in bridal books on the off chance that my boyfriend ever wants to me to participate in the antiquated institution of marriage."

Henry sighed, relieved, "Oh thank God. Wait. So… You never wanna get married, at all? To anybody?"

"Honestly, it's never crossed my mind. I've had one stupid boyfriend and I'm only 16. Why I would daydream about becoming someone's less respected partner is beyond me."

"Less respected?" Jasper repeated.

But Henry was stuck on "Stupid boyfriend?"

Charlotte snatched her brochures from Jasper and explained, "Married women are taken less seriously than their married male counterparts in the corporate world. Whether I go into STEM, academia, politics, business, or even if my degree proves useless and I wind up regretting decisions in retail - women are already valued less and when you add a wedding ring, they're expected to be full time workers and full time homemakers while Daddy retreats into his little solo space to unwind after his hard day's work. And don't let her become a mom! She doesn't get the necessary time off to be the kind of mother that everyone expects. Simultaneously, whatever kind of mother she is, the workplace thinks is too much." She was stuffing her bag and then looked at Henry, "And for the record, just because I haven't thought about it doesn't mean that I need your graphic depictions of relief about it!" She snatched her bag and headed for the elevator.

Jasper called out, "Okay, but that explanation of the workplace tells that you've definitely thought about it."

She glared at him and snapped, "That information is common knowledge to women!"

As the elevator door shut, Henry looked confused. "So.. Am I supposed to be thinking about marriage, or not?"

"I think that you shouldn't be, because Charlotte doesn't have marriage plans, but maybe if it crosses your mind, try to not seem repulsed by Charlotte being your wife? Her execution of the subject was all over the place."

"The place of lies," Ray said. "Women wanna get married. It's their reward for being good girlfriends!"

"That's a gross oversimplification of like everything involved in what you said," Henry commented. "Honestly, now that I think about it, Charlotte has literally never mentioned anything about weddings or marriage or anything like it. Not even so much as a "I'll play this song someday at my wedding."

Ray commented, taking a seat by Henry, "That's probably because she's been resigned to the fact that nobody's ever gonna marry her. I mean, she's the worst, amirite?"

"You're not," Jasper said, at the same time Henry said, "No."

"So, either of you can picture having Charlotte there, every single day, nagging you, telling you what to do, why this is unsafe or that's unwise?"

"That sounds like every day of my life since 5th grade," Jasper said.

"Yeah! Char is the smart one. We all know that. We need someone like that everyday!"

Ray muttered, "Still the worst."

"What is your problem with Charlotte?" Henry asked, exasperated."I mean, what if this does go different for us than my other relationships and it winds up being something real and lasting. Do I always have to worry that you're gonna be a butt to her?"

Ray laughed, "Yeah. I've known this was coming for a long time. I'm not treating her any differently no matter what status you have. Because as far as I'm concerned you've always been endgame… Also, she's the worst."

"Because she forces you to have to be better?" Jasper wondered.

Ray groaned and mumbled, "For your information, yes."

Charlotte came home and her uncle was on the couch, watching TV. What else was new? "Hey, Uncle Roscoe.

"Hey, Niece! You wanna watch the Kids Danger cartoon with me?"

"No. I've gotta look over college info so Mom and Dad will be able to plan my visits in between their orchestras and excavations. Speaking of, are they out tonight?"

"The Swellview Opera House. Your mom says there's a casserole just for you in the oven. Don't worry, I don't want whatever that is. I'm ordering a pizza." She nodded, disappointed that she wouldn't be able to discuss her college choices with them tonight. "You wanna watch one of your wedding dress shows?" Uncle Roscoe wondered.

"No."

"Not even Say Yasss, This is Your Drass?" He turned off the TV and wondered, "What's wrong, Tiny?"

"Sometimes, I feel like an outsider. Even in my own home and even with my only friends. Like, we're all sharing this one life, but nobody's on the journey with me and those that are on the journey, we're not on the same page."

"You know, I was an outsider like that too. Shoot, still to this day, as a starving artist."

"How can you be starving when you live here and eat everything we have?"

“I ain’t eat that grass casserole your mom made you.”

“I’m sure you mean bean sprouts,” she said, “And that’s not the whole casserole…” The doorbell rang and she looked at him. He reached for the remote control and she gave him a look. “I’ll get it.” She went to the door and by the time she peeked out of the peephole to see Henry nervously bouncing, Uncle Roscoe was laughing at something on the television. She called, “I’m gonna step outside and talk to my friend, Unc.”

“Girl, I’m watching my shows,” he said. Basically, he didn’t care.

She opened the door and stepped outside. Henry laughed, “Your friend? Something you need to tell me?” He joked, awkwardly. “What do you need, Henry?” She asked, sounding irritated.

“I need to explain what happened earlier.”

“Okay.”

“So… Jasper was talking about marriage and we’ve never spoken about that, because neither of us are thinking that far ahead into us. But, whenever I seemed relieved, it wasn’t because I think I’d never wanna marry you or something. I just thought that we were both in the same space - a space where that’s not even a conversation yet. So, I’m sorry if I sounded insulting to you.”

She shrugged her shoulders, “We rushed really fast into the entire boyfriend-girlfriend thing. There’s no need for us to rush anything into anything else. So, it’s fine.”

“But, you seemed upset.”

“Yeah. For the reason that I told you, but it’s not a big deal. Honestly, I have other things to be upset about. Maybe it just landed on you. So, I’m sorry.”

"You wanna talk about your things?" He asked.

She sighed and leaned against the front door. "You know how my parents and I go on a trip every summer together?"

"Yeah?"

"This year is the last one. Next year, they're sending me on a solo trip after graduation to see the world myself before college."

"That sounds awesome."

"But, I hardly see them now and I just want them to go over the pros and cons of these colleges with me. I know that sounds silly to other people, but it's a huge decision to make and I wish sometimes that they'd be more involved instead of just trusting my judgement. They raised me to be independent and they don't realize that sometimes, I could use just a little dependency, you know?"

Henry nodded, "Yeah, I get that. I haven't been able to depend on my parents in quite a while. But… I've always been able to depend on my friends. So, if you just need someone to lean on, I literally have nothing better to do than here for you." Henry offered her a hug and she smiled a small smile and accepted it. When she was hugging him, he said, "And it'd be excellent, I think… some time in the far future… you know?" She looked up at him. "IF we were thinking about that."

She nodded, "If I was gonna sell myself out in that way, it'd be with my best friend." He laughed. "I meant everything that I said about marriage! The only way that I'd be on board is if it was handled like a business arrangement with someone I trust."

"You trust like two people," he chuckled.

"Yep. And they'd both be IN the marriage."

"Me and???"

She stared at him and suggested, "Think it through."

"OH, YOU!"

"I already regret this unofficial contract."

"Fortunately, we've got a long time to even think about that. We haven't even discussed.. the physical evolution of our relationship." Her eyes widened and she wondered if he was talking about what she thought he was. He noticed and quickly changed the subject, "Or what you and me are doing this summer!"

She relaxed and nodded, "Aside from the few weeks, four weekends and Thursdays, I'm all yours…" He raised an eyebrow. "I mean, I'm open! I mean my time is free! I have a casserole to check on. I gotta get inside!" She rushed back in, shut the door and Henry shook his head and left. "Why would bring that up, Henry? She was already having a day. I mean, sure.. you wanna discuss it. But, you haven't been together that long and it was a FLUKE that you even got her. This happened kinda haphazardly. You're gonna screw it up if you keep being weird!"

Charlotte leaned against the door, breathing hard. Are… we THERE yet??? She glanced out of the window and saw Henry look back at the house before walking away with his head down. A few minutes later, she got a text: Hey. Sorry if I scared you bringing up THAT. I won't mention it again. I don't want stuff weird between us. Call me when you don't feel awkward.

She sighed with relief and replied instantly: Thanks, Hen. You're a great friend and honestly the best boyfriend.

Henry: Not stupid boyfriend?

Charlotte: Not at all. ILU

Henry: SAME.

#So I Had a Dream #So What Are We Doing This Summer #chenry #henry danger #hd fanfic

36 notes · View notes

pomegranate-belle · 6 years ago

Text

For Day 3 of MattFoggy Week: Matt Murdock Appreciation/Favorite Matt Moment

This is... Kinda late in the day to post, but I waffled for a long time. The next chapter of the Netflix/616 crossover would’ve been perfect for today’s theme, but it’s just not done yet. Instead, have some little bits and pieces from my WIP for the Marvel TV Bang, including one of my favorite Matt moments (who could choose just one??) aka Baby’s First Act of Vigilantism; apologies to the mods if these are still supposed to be anonymous but I figured that was just for art claims purposes--

((The premise of this fic is that NYC summons Matt to protect itself from Fisk (also a demon). Since the City has no soul of its own to sell, it lets Matt choose any person he wants. ;) Three guesses who the lucky winner ends up being--))

When Matthew Murdock dies, his hands are inches from the throat of the man who ordered his father’s murder, close enough that he can feel Roscoe Sweeney’s body heat against the pads of his fingers, pulsing like blood. They get no closer than that.

He takes a single bullet to the base of his skull, and can still feel the burn of it when he no longer has a skull to feel at all.

Matthew Murdock falls through the cracks, the way he always has. His body is destroyed beyond recognition and dumped without ceremony or care into the East River. There’s no one to miss him. No one to wonder if his soul has passed on.

It hasn’t.

The devil in him claws to the surface, clings to the City, clings to revenge, laughs at the way the City – webbed with energy and darkness and pain like a cracked windowpane – clings back. And even when the rest falls away, all the senses that remain falling silent with no input at all, there’s a piece the City in Matt and a piece of Matt in the City. A seed of each one in the other, a place where they’re the same – ravenous, protective, wounded.

And so perhaps in the end that’s the reason – the reason that, eleven years later when the City feels its first stirrings of true fear, it pulls Matthew Murdock out of the nothing, out of the void, out of the Ether. Draws him like a blade from that empty realm of demons and offers him anything he asks for.

The first thing he hears as he gasps in his first breath is screaming. Everything screaming. Himself, screaming. Every sense warring with the unprecedented, sudden onslaught of information. It’s like being blinded all over again.

… All over again.

Because he was. Blind. Before, yes. Before the aching gulf of nothing, before the Ether. Before it, he’d been… He’d been…

Matthew, the City seems to sing, soothing him from its barrage of sounds and smells and textures. Matthew Michael Murdock.

Yes. It all comes back to him, leeching through him like blood through veins – Jack Murdock, the accident, the orphanage, Stick… The mobsters.

The gun.

One shaking hand reaches for the back of his neck, but there’s no scar beneath his sensitive fingertips. Just soft skin and the wispy, silken brush of hair. The City has made him whole again. Bright and shiny and new.

And older. He must… He must be older, he thinks to himself, because he had been only seventeen when he died and he feels sturdier, a little taller than he did then. When Matt rubs a hand across his face, shakily assessing the differences in his body, he feels the itchy rasp of stubble where before there had been nothing but smooth skin.

The clothes he’s wearing are different too, not the simple, threadbare things he’d had on – hand-me-downs from the orphanage. Instead, the fabric against his skin is soft, gentle. High in quality, fitted like a dream. A button-up shirt, a silk tie, a suit jacket and slacks. Dress shoes. There are a pair of glasses perched on his nose. He pulls them off slowly, runs the pad of his thumb along the edge of the frames. Round. Matt slips them back onto his face. He tries to imagine the picture he makes. Professional, maybe. Like the lawyer his dad always wanted him to be.

A strange, contented feeling fills him that he knows is not his own. It’s the City, taking pride in its work, telling him, Look what We have made of you, feel the strength We have given you. And there is strength. A well of power so deep it almost scares him, thrumming under his skin, between muscle and bone.

The power of a demon.

Because that’s what he is now, he realizes with a shudder. A demon. One of the more-than-human creatures that stalk the streets of the City, that leave black Marks on the skin of the people living in it like dirty fingerprints.

The City has always had demons in it, and they have always had magic, but this? It’s beyond anything Matt recalls hearing about as a child or a young man. What he’s been given is fathomless. He could do anything with this power. Rip the world apart and put it back together.

But even with so much magic at his beck and call, he’s— cold. It’s like a hunger but it aches in his fingers and his heart instead of his belly. He… Needs something. Something…

The asphalt is warm under his feet, hums with life and energy, but not enough. The City can’t give Matt what he needs. What he needs…

That’s right, he thinks to himself. That’s right. A soul. He needs a soul. But even if the City is full of souls, it doesn’t have one of its own to keep Matt warm.

What warmth it does have surrounds Matt, strokes a summer breeze against his cheek and says— It’s ok. Choose one. Any one you want is yours, if you do as We ask.

And Matt is so desperately hungry for that warmth, and he loves his City – remembers, from Before, having always loved it, having learned that love from his father and from the people around him – that he says yes without any hesitation at all.

The deal is struck.

The City needs a protector, and Matt needs a soul, and then… Then the screams inside them both will stop.

It’s not long into his summoning that Matt hears the girl crying. Every night, crying. Her father comes into her room at night, and terrible things happen, and she cries.

The City is used to those sobs, even if it doesn’t like them. To Matt, though, they’re grating. They fray his nerves, rub them raw. But this isn’t in his deal, this isn’t part of the plan.

Still, it… It doesn’t always take demon magic to fix the world’s problems. Matt phones in an anonymous tip. He waits, he hopes.

The crying doesn’t stop. It actually gets worse – silent and gasping and painful. Helpless rage burns in his stomach like cold fire, only enhancing the chills that shiver through his body. But there is nothing he can do, no part of this that he can wrestle under the heading of the City’s deal. And the City is used to the crying, even when it hates it. It has to live with every person in it, the girl’s father included – the City doesn’t love him, but he’s still a part of it, one flickering flame among millions. And the only ones Matt is allowed to harm are the ones the City summoned him to. There’s no cruelty to the way it ushers Matt far from the girl’s window, but it still hurts. Aches inside him like a festering wound that Matt worries will never be healed.

Until the girl does something new. Until the night that she sets a book, dank with mildew, on her bedroom floor with a heavy thump. Scribbles something into the wood of the floorboards in firm strokes of what must be, by smell and sound, chalk. Dark energy fizzles in the air that night, a summoning to be done, a deal to be made. A deal born of vengeance and terror and the desperation of a child betrayed. A deal that sings for him. And Matt is clever, and he’s powerful, and he’s the City’s favorite. The deal is his almost before he can think to ask for it.

Matt’s hands are wrapped with cloth but the man’s blood seeps through them. It’s hot and soothing against his skin. He wants to bathe in it, use it to drive away the chill that still haunts his bones. When Matt flashes his victim a smile, his teeth are fangs and there are huge, twisted horns sprouting from his skull.

“Touch your daughter again and I’ll know,” Matt breathes, pressing a burning hand to the man’s jaw and leaving behind his Mark; a warning, a brand – equal and opposite to the one hidden beneath his daughter’s sleeve, a jagged mirror of Matt’s Mark that flares with malevolence instead of protection. “Touch her again and you die.”

“W-who are you?” the man demands, terror laced through every breath.

Demons don’t have names. Don’t remember them. They choose new ones, when they surface. And even though the City returned his name to him, Matt knows what he wants to say. Knows the message he wants to send this man and anyone like him.

Those Murdock boys, he remembers his grandmother saying, can almost remember the way the wrinkles creased her face, they got the Devil in ‘em. There’s nothing in Matt now – not even a soul – so he knows there’s no Devil in him.

Matt grins, savors the stinging, already-healing pain of the split in his lip.

“Me? I’m the Devil.”

And as long as that means he can keep the City safe, keep people like Eva safe… Well, Matt’s just fine with that.

Karen’s companion smells heady and sweet, enough that Matt can almost taste it on his tongue. Enough that his fingers twitch with desire when he considers burying his nose in the man’s neck to better inhale his scent. Even more alluringly, the man’s soul swirls with magic – Matt is put in mind of photos of the galaxy that he saw as a child. It’s blazingly warm, like sunlight on the skin, and it dances when the man laughs a perfect, glittering laugh. A tremble born of arousal, of hunger, chases its way through Matt’s body at the sound.

“Are, um,” Karen asks hesitantly. “Are demon Marks always black?”

“What kind of question is that?”

The stranger sounds puzzled, concerned, and the tone of his voice – so full of care, love – sends another shiver of pleasure down Matt’s spine. He wants that tone with a greed that borders on terrifying. Wants it directed at himself.

“Well.” Karen’s voice breaks Matt out of the trance. “Well, say one was… Red. What might that mean?”

The rhythm of the man’s steps stutters, halts.

“Karen, I have literally never heard of a red Mark in my life. Is there… Something you want to tell me? You didn’t, you know, make a deal or something, did you?”

“No!” Karen lies. “No. Just, you know, curious, I suppose.”

“Right.” Her companion doesn’t sound at all convinced. “Well, you know… You know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Yeah, Foggy, of course. Of course I do. Really, it’s nothing.”

Foggy, Matt mouths to himself, feels the shape of the name on his tongue. Foggy Nelson. It’s… Silly. Whimsical, and gentle, and sweet. Like the man it belongs to. Perfect.

Franklin Percy Nelson, the City purrs proudly – first-middle-last with no hesitation, not even considering the power that name could give Matt over the man strolling, unaware, down the street below him. The power to break free of any spell he casts, to thwart any exorcism he attempts… Even to bewitch or enchant him. It’s an intimate knowledge, but it’s not one Matt wants from the City – it’s not something he wants to use or exploit.

And anyway, he… He likes ‘Foggy’ better than Franklin.

But while Matt might be— enamored, he’s not a fool. Very rarely is anything as it seems at first— Er. Well. Matt isn’t much for glancing. But the point is that people aren’t always what they seem. And as much as he doesn’t want to think that this could be the case with Foggy… Matt’s not used to good things falling into his lap. He wants to be sure, to be absolutely certain, before he makes his choice.

He’s got a little recon to do. The City seems amused with he whole thing, and it doesn’t protest. Actually even seems eager to find out what Matt will do next. He takes this show of interest as the gift it is, and temporarily shifts his focus, from the City’s deal to Foggy.

#mattfoggyweek #matt murdock #daredevil #mattfoggy #writing

16 notes · View notes

goldenvindication · 6 years ago

Text

si nequeo superos ; canon-compliant

characters: anise montfort; elise montfort; hadrian werley; brighid calhoun; morgaine selwyn; sairish hadad words: 2.1k warnings: parental death, mild internalized homophobia, annie being scary :o @pleasantprefects heartflower au

flectere si nequeo superos, acheronta movebo - if i cannot move heaven, i will raise hell.

aster - daintiness; trusting

They name her Anise because she is covered in flowers when she is born. Gabriel says her tiny, premature body reminds him of the Jardins de Luxembourg, in Paris, and Elise doesn’t say anything, so he signs the birth certificate with Anise Desdemona - named after the muggle heroine who gave up her life for love, and the flowers that he’d pick in the garden, before he met Elise, before his life changed. Gabriel thought it was for the worse, but seeing the baby girl in his wife’s arms, watching her hand curl around his pinky finger, his mind changes.

When Elise learns of the girl’s name, she scowls. She scowls because the girl’s name was to be Louise or Anna, after her maternal grandparents, but when Gabriel looks at his daughter, he sees only an Anise - an Anise covered in purple flowers stemming from her heart. Sometimes he’ll put his fingers on the petals and rub them between his thumb and forefinger, watching as she coos and giggles.

white lilac - youthful innocence; memories

One of Annie’s favorite memories is of being a muggle. She’s known about magic all her life, and yet it’s muggle Paris, at midnight, which she remembers the most fondly. She’s seven, and she shouldn’t be up - Gabriel knows that, and so does his mother, who chastises him when they get home.

But it’s Paris at midnight, and Papa takes her up to the Pont des Arts to see the Eiffel Tower in all its glory. She thinks it’s beautiful, and Papa holds her little hand as they walk across the bridge. She begs to go on the manege, with the horses, but it’s closed now. Papa puts Annie on his shoulders and she watches, eyes wide, as the tower lights up.

He smiles, and like magic (which she knows is real, but she also knows he doesn’t have), he produces a lock out of his pocket. He says, will you lock it with me, ma fleur?, and she giggles, nods, and he puts her down. She takes one look at the lock, and it turns bright blue, her favorite color, instead of the silver it was.

Gabriel’s shocked. He knew his wife could do that, but for some selfish reason, he hoped that Annie wouldn’t. He’d hoped that Annie would be a… what was it called, a squib, so that she wouldn’t have to be like that family. She had his name, she should have been like him, because if she was, he could have taken her away. He could have kept her here, with her grandmere and her cousins who were actually her age.

But Annie squeals with glee and touches the lock, trying to change it to a different color, but she could only do it once. Gabriel promises her that Mother will teach her soon, when she’s a little older, and her eyes brim with tears. She wanted to do magic like Julia and Isla! He quickly distracts her with the key to the lock, and they lock it together. And soon enough, where his hands are on top of hers, white lilac grows.

When they come back, Clementine Montfort is still awake, and she speaks harshly to Gabriel in rapid French, and still, Annie understands. But Grandmere takes one look at the lilacs on Annie’s hands, and she knows. She puts Annie to bed and shows her the blue tulips on her heart, and plucks one for Annie to keep under her pillow.

arborvitae - everlasting friendship

Annie is eleven and Roscoe has gone back to his dorm, and she is a Ravenclaw. Annie knew she’d be a Ravenclaw. There was no doubt in her, or her mother’s, or her grandmother’s mind, even though the Hat told her she’d do well in Slytherin. Annie disagreed. She is eleven and she wants to be different from her parents, but she misses her Papa and the double life she got to live in Paris the year before.

She’s eleven and alone, and she’d say hello to her roommates, but they don’t seem to like her too much. She’d talked and talked at the feast, and even the prefects had been annoyed at her. Annie finds herself a place in the little library, in a nook on the side. There’s someone across from her, but she ignores him as she takes a long look at her Potions book, but what the heck is a dittany? Annie furrows her brow and stares at the page for way too long, until she spots the tall boy with really big glasses across from her. He looks smart, smarter than her, but he also looks engrossed in… Alas, I’ve Transfigured my Feet? What? Annie bothers Werley until he relents to teaching her, then listens to Werley drone on out of the “kindness” of his heart. As she watches him, arborvitae leaves grow around her thin arms.

She doesn’t really understand why - once Grandmere had learned of her condition, she’d given Annie that weird French book on Victorian flower meanings, saying that it was genetic through Montfort girls -- but Annie wasn’t a Montfort.

Grandmother had told her that she was a Castellaine, and that she was only Montfort by name. “Nothing else,” Grandmother would say, as she inspected the blossoms on Annie’s hands. “You are nothing like your father or his kin. You are a Castellaine, like me, like your grandfather, like your mother before you. You are a witch - in everything but name.”

But from Grandmere’s book, her muggle book, Annie knows that arborvitae is a type of coniferous plant, and that it means everlasting friendship. If the flowers said so, it would have to be true. In that moment, Annie decides that Hadrian Werley (he’d tell her his first name later) would become her best friend. It didn’t matter if he had others.

linaria bipartita - please notice my feelings for you

Annie meets Brighid in her fourth year, and everything changes.

Brighid’s in her Arithmancy class, and Annie’s noticed her before, she has. She’s noticed dark brown hair falling down the girl’s back, she’s noticed thin wrists writing while Annie wasn’t, she’s heard her voice, but not much, she wasn’t outspoken - and she’s definitely noticed pursed pink lips when Annie was called on to answer a question that Brighid obviously knew the answer to.

But Annie’s not gay. She’s not. She likes Cahal a lot; he’s really nice, but she won’t let him kiss her. Kisses on the cheek are fine, but she doesn’t let him touch her more than that. She doesn’t know why he doesn’t protest. It might be because of the way he looks at Babineaux when he thinks Annie isn’t looking.

Brighid begins to tutor Annie in Arithmancy, and Annie notices more. She notices how passionate Brighid is about this godforsaken subject, and she doesn’t understand how. She notices how pretty her eyes are when that specific light from that specific window next to the table in the back hit them. And worst of all, she begins to think about how those pink lips would feel pressed against her own.

Linaria bipartita flowers grow up her ribcage. She tells Hadrian first.

marigold - pain and grief

October ninth was set up to be a normal day, but when Sairish Hadad comes frantically into the Ravenclaw common room, everyone can tell that something is wrong. She calls for Montfort, and just then, Annie comes downstairs in her school robes. It’s a normal day, and she fiddles with the pleats on her skirt. Professor Hadad meets Annie’s eyes, and gestures for her to come with her.

Annie is in trouble, she knows it. Her grades had dropped in DADA -- but Hadad looks scared and sad, not disappointed.

As Annie is lead to the tower, there is a cup of tea for her there. She’s sat down in front of Hadad’s desk, and spoken to very gently.

Those first moments don’t feel real. She stares at Hadad for a long, long moment, and then bursts into tears. Papa is dead, and she is here. She can’t go home - but it wasn’t as if she wanted to. Mother wouldn’t be sad, Grandmother might even be triumphant. It sickened her to think of it, but as she cried, Professor Hadad pulls her into a tight hug, but Annie can’t hear anything.

Grief is hard, Anise, she says. You’re a strong witch, she says, but Annie can’t feel a thing. She can’t feel a thing as she plucks each white lilac from her hands and fingers and watches as dark marigolds grow in their place.

blue tulip - respect; tranquility; trust

Annie meets Morgaine Selwyn the next month and then promptly tries to pull her wand on the woman. Hadrian stops Annie, but she’s furious. This woman must have killed her father, or knows who did, with all of the blood-supremacist bullshit she’s spewing.

But Superbia is kind and calm with her. She explains everything, she apologises, promises her that it everything will be worth it - as long as Annie is loyal.

The Vindication gives Annie place and a purpose. They say destroy her favorite professor’s tower, and she does. When she asks Superbia why, after, Superbia tells her that it was a test. They were making sure she was loyal; that she wouldn’t leave. She wouldn’t. Annie doesn’t question anymore. She never gives them a reason to distrust her loyalty after that.

Blue tulips grow behind her ear, up her temples, and she wears them like trophies.

honeysuckle - devoted affection; bonds of love

Annie kisses Brighid in the rain after the Halloween dance, and all seems right with the world. Brighid’s hand in hers is perfection, like the warmest blanket on a cold day, and she smells like the jasmine essence from the prefects’ bathroom.

Annie kisses her and kisses her, and she doesn’t let go until Brighid pulls away. She tells Annie that she isn’t sure about any of this, that she isn’t sure that she wants commitment right now. Annie says she isn’t sure either. That is a lie. Annie says kiss me until you are. That isn’t.

Honeysuckle blossoms grow up her ribcage. She’d pick them all for Brighid.

red dahlia - betrayal; dishonesty

They tell the Elder Futhark to kill Alis Murray after a tea party. Annie starts to doubt once again. She doesn’t mean to, they’ve done so much for her already, but she doesn’t understand. Annie doesn’t know how to kill anyone. She’s not powerful. She’s never used a killing curse or even a jinx for real.

Ira tells Annie she isn’t being creative enough. She tries again, but it’s too late before the four older kids have figured something out. Annie’s angry. They were supposed to do this as a team, she says, why don’t you want to be a team?

Davis hits a cursed bludger at Murray during a Quidditch match. She survives, and Annie wants to punch Gemma Watts. She wants to punch Gemma Watts right in her stupid, smug face, and tell her that she was wrong. Annie knows she was right, that they’d have to work together, but Annie also knows that Gemma Watts wouldn’t care.

They form a plan. They execute that plan practically flawlessly. Locke makes the potion. Davis puts the potion into chocolate. Annie gets Alis Murray to take her back to the classroom where Murray will die, from Professor Cavanagh giving her those chocolates. Murray gives Annie a music box to give to her Brighid, for Valentine’s Day, she says. Red dahlias grow up Annie’s spine.

Her Brighid kills Murray. Her beautiful, stoic Brighid kills a woman, and Hadrian does too. Then, after, they pretend to go ice-skating.

begonia - beware; a fanciful nature

They tell her to spread the ideals, so she does. She becomes powerful, leading a group of people at a tea party, telling them about the eradication of wizards without magic. She tells her proteges how much better the world would be if magic was not just given away.

She finds herself not wanting to be like her father anymore. She finds herself wanting to be pure, like her mother. She wishes she’d never been to France, and that her father hadn’t robbed her of her birthright. The marigolds stay.

And when she sees herself in the mirror, she can barely recognize the platinum-haired girl staring back at her, with begonias across her shoulders. Anise likes it better this way.

#annie #anniewriting #she's scary guys!! i'm not sorry!!!#applebyarrows-official #virtus-vindicta-victoria #heartflower au

5 notes · View notes

starrypawz · 7 years ago

Text

@karanan

Roscoe seemed to have a way with people. Gev had to admit that

It’d been what an hour? Maybe a bit longer since he’d shown up at the cantina and Gev did notice the fact he felt incredibly relaxed around him. He was aware of the cantina but only just, his focus rapidly seemed to be on him and Axi and not much else.

Maybe the drinks had something to do with it. Didn’t they say the Force made alcohol act different or something? Maybe he was remembering a bit wrong. Was it really important right now anyway?

Axi had nestled herself up into his side and he comfortably had an arm around her. He could’ve sworn Roscoe had inched a bit closer as they’d been talking but he was keeping himself just far enough away to seem respectful.

At first Gev had been quiet, not quite sure what to make of him, he knew what Axi had told him but that had melted away in short order and Roscoe had seemingly gotten a lot out of him. And Gev was pretty sure Roscoe had managed to get him to make his life seem a lot more entertaining than it probably really was. And Axi had been nothing but chatty, easily bantering with Roscoe as they talked.

He wasn’t quite sure what words to describe him with… precise seemed a good one, every seemingly casual gesture he’d seen wasn’t as casual as it seemed, maybe? Or maybe he was just naturally that graceful.

And… attractive was another one, very attractive.

Handsome maybe? Beautiful definitely.

Gev kept noticing his eyes, his cheekbones and his lips. Those lips. The lighting in the cantina gave them all weird coloured shadows, and on Roscoe those shadows seemed to highlight his features even more,

Roscoe had paused just now and he watched a brief flick of his tongue and he swallowed hard in response. And Gev realised Roscoe hadn’t actually been talking, he’d been drinking.

And he’d been staring the whole time, his eyes focusing on his lips and also his throat.

Roscoe had turned to him in that moment, a smirk upon his lips and those perfect eyebrows raised, “Gev?”

He cleared his throat reaching for a drink, “Urm… nothing?”

He let out a chuckle, “Nothing huh?” a twinkle in his grey eyes as he caught his lip on purpose this time and despite his best efforts Gev felt a weird little needy sound building in his throat that he probably should keep under wraps in here.

“Would it, would it be weird if I kissed you?” Something in his mind tried to point out that was probably one of the dumbest things he could’ve said.

There was a chuckle, not unkindly, “Oh I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t,” He tilted his head and winked, “Depending on what Axi thinks-”

Axi wound a hand into his hair, “Aww, you know I did say you could try kissing boys if you wanted,” Giving out a light, slightly tipsy giggle,

Gev bit down on a nervous chuckle, feeling the heat rising to his cheeks, his head starting to feel a bit light and he knew that wasn’t just the drink talking, “You did-”

“He is a good kisser Gev,”

Roscoe had leant forward in that time, just crossing that invisible barrier between them a perfectly manicured hand just resting on his thigh, “I will admit I’m rather curious to see what Axi’s been raving about,”

Gev swallowed hard again, feeling heat on his ears, “Just… just how much have you?”

“Only nice things,” She gave his hair a playful tug.

Gev let out a shaky breath, his eyes meeting Roscoe’s for a moment before dropping down to those lips again. He felt Axi give his head a playful shove forward with a giggle.

He swallowed again and moved forward his lips brushing Roscoe’s and finding them just as soft as he had guessed, and tasting just a hint of what he’d been drinking.

Gev pulled back with a shaky laugh, and Roscoe traced the line of tattoos just under his lip.

“Cute,” Roscoe licked his lips briefly, smirking as a hand went to Gev’s collar,

Gev yet again bit down on the noise he could feel building up, “Please?”

“So polite too,”

Gently but firmly he pulled on Gev’s collar, kissing him again, a bit firmer this time, Gev sighing against his lips, he felt his tongue press against his lips and he eagerly allowed it, only just aware of that needy little noise he couldn’t keep down. Roscoe’s lips soft against his and the press of his lips firm, but playful as he pushed himself against him. Gev feeling his lithe frame against his. Shakily his hands went to Roscoe’s shoulders as Roscoe kept a grip on his shirt.

They pulled back, both breathing shakily, Gev’s hands still around his shoulders as Roscoe perched in his lap, his fingers resting on the skin of Gev’s throat.

“You weren’t kidding,” Roscoe sighed breathlessly, running a hand through his hair looking to Axi with a grin, “Lucky-”

Axi let out a short tipsy chuckle, grinning over the edge of her glass, biting her lop, feeling heat rise to her cheeks after what she’d just seen.

“Well when I said I hoped you two would get along-”

Roscoe cupped Gev’s cheek, his thumb resting on a tattoo before pulling him in for another kiss.

#starry writes stuff #gev var #axi revel #gev that's gay

12 notes · View notes

tabbytabbytabby · 7 years ago

Note

#44 and Sterek please off the new list

44. “Don’t talk to me, I need my coffee first.” from this list of prompts

Also on AO3

Stiles stares dumbly at where Derek is standing in the doorway tothe backyard. He’s covered head to toe in bright blue paint. Stiles would laughand make a joke about him looking like a member of the Blue Man Group if hewasn’t so exhausted. Right now all he can do is stare for a moment beforemoving over to the coffee maker and turning it on.

Derek opens his mouth, about tosay something but Stiles shakes his head, holding up a hand to silence him.“Don’t talk to me, I need my coffee first.”

Derek’s mouth immediately shutswith a clack, his foot tapping impatiently as he waits for the coffee tofinish. Stiles takes his time, mixing in a little milk and sugar. He noticesDerek sigh heavily, scrubbing a hand down his face. Stiles’ lips twitch at theway the blue paint smears even more across his skin. Stiles frowns at the wayhis body reacts. What the hell? He’s blue. Now is not the time.

“You’re blue, you should not beattractive right now.” Stiles mutters, bringing his coffee up to his lips, butnot taking a drink. “It’s kind of unfair that even now you’re stillridiculously hot.”

Derek growls, his eyes narrowingat where the cup is simply resting against Stiles’ lips. “Stiles,” he warns.

Stiles tsk’s, smirking over hiscoffee at Derek, “Didn’t I say not before my coffee? Patience Der.”

Derek growls, “Maybe I’d have somepatience if I wasn’t covered head to toe in drying paint while you’re justdicking around.”

Stiles relents, only because hereally does need coffee if he’s going to deal with his. He’s not particularlyfond of being woken up at 6 a.m. by a werewolf banging in his door. It doesn’tmatter how hot he is. He closes his eyes when the first drop touches his lips,a pleased moan slipping past his lips.

He opens his eyes when there’sanother growl to find Derek’s eyes locked on him, glowing a brilliant red.Stiles gulps, lowering his cup onto the counter behind him. It’s been a longtime since Derek scared him but seeing Derek’s eyes on him like that doesthings to him. Things he should not be feeling this early, especially not forsomeone covered in blue paint.

“Something wrong Der?” He asks,feeling a little breathless.

Derek narrows his eyes steppinginto the room, ignoring Stiles’ complaints about getting paint everywhere. “Doyou know why I’m covered in paint?”

Stiles shakes his head,instinctively taking a step back but finding his path blocked by the counter.“Why?”

“Because of you,” Derek says,stopping right in front of Stiles. “Because I know how much you want Roscoerepainted so I was trying to surprise you with it. Then that stray cat you’vebeen feeding tripped me and made me knock into the ladder. Which then causedthe paint to dump over on top of me. And now I’m a fucking Smurf.”

Stiles just gapes at him, “Youwere doing that for me? Why?”

“Do you really have to ask that?”

And yeah, Stiles does. Because ifit gets this wrong it could ruin everything.

Derek seems to sense this becausehis face softens, a hand raised to touch Stiles before he thinks better of it.“Because I love you, you idiot. I want to see you happy. Even if that meansgetting covered in blue paint and confessing all this to you in the mostuncomfortable way imaginable.”

Stiles feels his breath leave him,his eyes flicking between Derek’s green ones. The only thing left on him that’snot blue. Stiles for once is at a loss for words. So he does the only thing hecan think of. He acts.

He leans in, fitting his lips overDerek’s. They’re a little dry and Stiles knows he must be getting covered in painthimself from where he’s pressing himself so tightly up against Derek, but he’slong past caring.

How can he? He’s finally kissingDerek. Getting covered in paint is well worth it. They can always help eachother wash it off later if Derek is interested. Which Stiles really hopeshe is.

“We’re both a mess,” Derekmutters, nudging Stiles’ head with his own. “If we don’t wash this off soon itmight not come off.”

Stiles smirks, “Well it’s a goodthing I have a perfectly functional shower.”

Derek’s eyes darken, “We shouldprobably shower together then. To conserve water.”

Stiles nods, his lips twitching.“Of course. And I might need help getting paint off my back.”

Derek’s brow furrows, “You don’thave paint on your back.”

Stiles holds Derek’s gaze as he grabshis hand and brings it around his waist. He lets it skim down his lower backbefore leading it lower, under the waistband of his sweats. Once there he fitsit right over one of his cheeks. He smirks when Derek squeezes, his thumbrunning down between his cheeks causing him to gasp and rock back into Derek’shold. Derek’s a lot bolder than he thought he would be. Then again, so is he.

Derek uses the hold on Stiles’ assto pull him closer, nipping at his bottom lip before kissing him. “I thinkwe’re going to need to take extra care back there, don’t you?”

Stiles groans, resting hisforehead against Derek’s. “God I love you.”

Stiles pulls back when Derektenses, eyes flicking across his face. “Derek?”

“You love me?”

Stiles stares at him for a moment,trying to understand. Then the realization hits him that he never said it back.“Shit, yeah of course I do. I was just so I overwhelmed earlier and you left mekind of speechless.”

Derek grins, “You? Speechless?Well that’s an accomplishment.”

“I bet you could do a lot more tomake me speechless if you really tried,” Stiles smirks, rocking his hipsagainst Derek’s.

“Fuck,” Derek groans. “Okay. Let’sgo.”

Stiles almost laughs at theeagerness with which Derek starts dragging him to the bathroom. But then he’sbeing pushed against the bathroom wall and getting kissed until he’sbreathless.

“Strip,” Derek growls, pullingback to start working on his own clothes. Stiles’ eyes widen when Derek getsfrustrated and uses his claws to tear through the fabric.

Derek frown when he notices Stilesstill just standing there. “What is it? Why are you still dressed?”

Stiles wants to say it’s becausehe was distracted by the eagerness that Derek had literally ripped theclothes from his body and that he found it extremely hot, but all that comesout is a squeak. He clears his throat and tries again. “Claws Derek?”

It’s not exactly eloquent, butit’s the best he can do right now. Derek looks down at his shredded clothes.His shirt is on the floor at his feet, along with most of his jeans, the restof which are pooled at his feet around his shoes. The only thing covering Derekare his tight boxer briefs, which also have claw marks on either side ofDerek’s apparent erection. Had he…? Oh Jesus. He had to have tried topurposely cut around his dick.

Derek shrugs but Stiles can seehis face heating up, a light pink visible below his beard. His beard thatStiles really wants to feel brushing across his skin. But Derek is speaking andStiles really should focus.

“The paint had dried too much forme to get them off,” Derek mutters.

Stiles smiles, stepping closer toDerek. He puts his hands on Derek’s hips, rubbing his cheek along Derek’s,finally enjoying the delicious scratch of his beard. “Well, why don’t you justhelp me out of my clothes? I don’t seem to be doing a very good job of it.”

“You should be careful what youask for Stiles,” Derek tells him.

“I know exactly what I’m askingfor,” Stiles says, teeth grazing Derek’s jaw. “I know you won’t hurt me. Itrust you.”

Derek’s eyes darken, a dangerousglint to them. He brings up a clawed hand, letting it lightly trace acrossStiles’ neck before moving down to his collarbone. Stiles gasps at the feelingof Derek’s claws piercing through his shirt, slowly ripping it down the middle,his claws grazing Stiles’ skin.

It should be terrifying, havingsomething so dangerous that close to his skin, but it’s not. It turns Stiles oneven more. Especially when Derek’s fangs drop and he moves in to trace themalong Stiles throat. Stiles can’t breathe. He’s shaking with need and desire.He knows what Derek’s fangs can do, knows the risk of having them somewhere sovulnerable but Stiles doesn’t care.

He throws his head back, givingDerek better access. Derek growls, nuzzling into Stiles neck. He’s putting somuch trust in Derek right now, they both know it. The thing is, with Derek thisclose and making him feel the way he is Stiles knows he wouldn’t mind if Derekdid bite him. Part of him even wants it.

Derek pulls back, face shifted andlooking at Stiles with an uncontrollable hunger. Stiles can’t resist bringinghis hand up to Derek’s face, his fingers slowly working across it. Derek closeshis eyes, leaning into the touch. Stiles moves his hand down, letting hisfingers run along Derek’s fangs, earning a growl from the Alpha. It’s not athreat, Stiles knows it. He’s well attuned to Derek speak by now.

He moves back, letting hisshredded shirt fall off his shoulders. He looks at Derek, hands moving to hissweats. “Am I taking these off or are you?”

Derek crosses his arms across hischest, staring at Stiles expectantly, “I think it’s your turn to put on a show,don’t you?”

Stiles grins cheekily, “These areall I’m wearing so it’s not much of a show. But now that I know you’re into itI’m saving that knowledge for the future.”

He winks, moving his hands to pushhis sweats down. He’s fully aware of Derek’s eyes on him the whole time. Itsends a thrill through him. Derek steps closer once Stiles has his sweats off,his hands moving to Stiles’ hips.

“God Stiles,” Derek breathes.“Look at you.”

Stiles blushes, ducking his head.He groans when Derek moves his hand, fisting it around Stiles’ cock. He movesit up, working around the head and gathering the precum before moving back downagain. He gives a few firm strokes, while licking and biting at Stiles’ neck.

“I want to taste you so bad,”Derek murmurs, eyes flicking up to meet Stiles’. “But I’d rather not be bluewhen we do this.”

Stiles snorts, slapping Derek’shand away. “Well then we better fix that, hadn’t we?”

He smirks and starts walkingtowards the shower. He hears rustling telling him that Derek is taking off therest of his clothes. Stiles forces himself to keep his back turned. He mightwant to see Derek naked but he’s not about to look overeager.

His hand stills on the nozzle whenhe hears Derek snicker. Stiles turns his head momentarily offended when he seesDerek’s gaze focused on his ass.

“Is there a reason you startedsnickering the moment you laid eyes on my bare ass?” Stiles asks, trying tokeep his tone light.

Derek just grins, gesturingtowards Stiles’ ass, “It’s blue.”

Stiles’ brow furrows for a momentbefore realization dawns on him. He’d had Derek touch his ass earlier,purposely wanting him to turn it blue so he could wash it off. How Stiles couldforget that so easily he doesn’t know, then again he has been distracted withDerek touching other parts of his body.

“It is,” Stiles says, finallyletting his eyes trail down Derek’s body. He’s seen Derek shirtless so manytimes before but he doesn’t ever think he’ll get used to the sight. Not that hewants to.

His gaze moves from Derek chestand perfect abs further down until he’s taking in Derek’s cock. The sight of itmakes his mouth water. It’s long and thick and Stiles just knows it will dothings to him that will have him screaming.

Later, Stiles thinks, for now youboth really need to get in the shower.

Stiles’ eyes move back up toDerek’s, finding the werewolf watching him. The unconcealed desire in his gazehas Stiles quickly turning back around and turning the water on. Once he has itat a decent temperature he turns to Derek, “Well Der. You ready to get in?”

Derek nods, stepping close toStiles. He wraps his arms around Stiles and pulls him in for another kiss.Stiles goes willingly, kissing Derek like he’s desperate for it. Like Stiles isdehydrated and the only cure for his thirst is Derek’s kisses, Derek’s everything.And damn is he thirsty.

He lets out a choked sound whenhis eyes move to the mirror next to them and he catches sight of theirreflection. Derek pulls back with a frown before he follows Stiles’ eyes to themirror.

“Holy shit,” Derek says, “I reallydo look like a member of the Blue Man Group.”

Stiles snorts, tucking his faceagainst Derek’s neck. There’s no point in avoiding it. Stiles’ face is alreadycovered in blue paint from where he’s been kissing Derek. “The paint isn’ttoxic is it? Like I’m not going to drop dead?”

Derek shakes his head, “I don’tthink so. I’ll have to keep a special eye on you just in case.”

Stiles knows Derek means it as ajoke but his face shows just how serious he is. Stiles has no doubt that Derekis going to be watching him for any signs of toxicity from the paint. Hesmiles, rubbing Derek’s cheek fondly, “I’m sure I’m fine. It’s been a while andI’m still standing.”

Derek nods, “Maybe so. We reallyneed to get this washed off though, just in case.”

“Right, just in case. And notbecause you’re blue or anything.”

“I’ll suffer through being blue,”Derek tells him, “what I’m worried about is your health.”

“And I told you I’m fine,” Stilessays, “Now come on before the water gets cold.”

Derek nods, surprising Stiles bysmacking his ass when he turns around to get in the shower. Stiles glares halfheartedlyat him before getting into the tub. Derek is quick to follow. He moves to kissStiles but Stiles ducks away.

“Nope,” Stiles says, holding hishands up to stop Derek from coming any closer. “We’re getting this paint offfirst Papa Smurf.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “I imaginethe paint will come of fine once we’re under the water.”

Stiles stares at Derek, a look ofdisbelief on his face. “Dude. You’ve been covered in blue paint for at leasthalf an hour, which is both our faults. And I’m not complaining because kissingyou is amazing. But the paint has basically dried. We’re probably going to haveto scrub it off.”

“Scrub it off everywhere?” Derekasks, walking until he has Stiles pinned to the wall. “Because I remember yousaying you wanted me to pay special attention to that ass of yours.”

“You can touch my ass all you wantafter we get his paint off,” Stiles says, gasping when Derek’s teeth graze hiscollarbone. “Derek I swear. You are not getting anywhere near my ass untilyou’re no longer blue.”

Derek grins against his throat,“What about other parts of you?”

Stiles groans, relenting andthrowing his head back against the tile wall of the shower, “Fuck. You cantouch me all you want if you use soap.”

Stiles can feel Derek’s answeringsmirk against his skin. It infuriates him as much as it excites him. “You wantme to lather you up Stiles? Get your body slick and ready? I can do that. Usemy hands and my tongue, clean you up until you’re a panting mess begging for meto keep touching you.”

“Derek,” Stiles moans, handsearching blindly for the soap. He lets out a relieved breath when he finds it.“Can you… there are wash clothes right outside. Maybe grab a few.”

He knows he told Derek to get thewash clothes but he still can’t help the noise of complaint he makes when Derekmoves away. He’s back a moment later, standing close but not touching. Stilesmoves his head, looking at Derek to find the werewolf staring down at thewashcloth. “What is it?”

Derek’s eyes snap back up to his,mouth pulled down in a frown. And what the hell is that about? Derek should notbe looking like that when they’re about to touch either other’s dicks.

“I know I was being pushy aboutthis,” Derek says. “But if this isn’t something you want I need you to tellme.”

“Are you…?” Stiles lets out adisbelieving laugh, pushing off the wall and moving the short distance toDerek. He brings a hand up to brush across his cheek, happy to see some of thepaint has already started to wash away. “Of course I want this. I want you, allof you. Just without all the blue paint. Now, if you’ll had over thatwashcloth I can assist you in getting it and you off.”

He smirks when Derek’s eyesdarken, shoving the washcloths into Stiles’ chest. Stiles throws the washclothshe doesn’t need to the side and wets the other before lathering it up withsoap. “Why don’t you get yourself nice and wet for me big buy?”

Derek nods, moving under thespray. Stiles can only watch as the paint starts to slide off, revealing thetanned skin Stiles loves so much. It doesn’t all disappear, but Stiles doesn’tmind. He fully intends to give Derek’s body the attention it deserves. By thetime he’s done there won’t be any part of Derek that’s blue, he’ll make sure ofit.

He has Derek move away from thewater until he’s standing right in the middle of the shower, facing Stiles.Stiles brings the washcloth up, gently scrubbing at the skin of Derek’s throat.He smiles at the pleased rumble Derek gives before letting the cloth slide downfurther, moving it along his collarbone. He takes his time, washing Derekthoroughly, paying special attention to his abs. There might not be paint therebut well, how can he not? He feels Derek’s eyes on him when he drops to hisknees.

“I think the paint is gone offyour front, “Stiles says, looking at Derek through his lashes. “Unless there’ssomewhere else you need me to check.”

He drops the washcloth, lettinghis hands trail up slowly up Derek’s calves to his knees, “Here?” Derek shakeshis head and Stiles smirks, tapping Derek’s knee with his fingers, “Higher orlower?”

Derek’s eyes flash briefly beforehe takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “Higher.”

Stiles makes a thoughtful noise,his hands slowly moving up to Derek’s muscular thighs. Stiles lets himselfenjoy the feeling of finally getting his hands on the flesh. He’d be lying ifhe said he hasn’t imagined what they would feel like under his hands. He’s notdisappointed. He’d like nothing more than to take his time admiring them. That’llcome later, when he has more time and patience to properly worship Derek’sbody.

He looks up to find Derek’s eyeson him, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. It gives him pause,realizing that Derek must be holding back. That just won’t do. Stiles places akiss to Derek’s hip. “You can touch me too, you know? I want you to.”

He grabs Derek’s hand, bringing itto his hair. His eyes are dancing with mischief as he looks up at Derek. “Showme where you want me Der.”

Derek looks uncertain for a moment,hand just hanging loosely in Stiles’ hair. It’s strange, Derek had been the onepushing for this and now that he has Stiles here on his knees he’s suddenlyunsure? Stiles realizes he’s going to have to step it up a bit if he’s going toget Derek to admit what he wants and give into to his desires.

“Show me where you want me Alpha.”

Derek growls, hand tightening inStiles’ hair as he finally directs Stiles where he wants to go. Stilescan’t help but feel pleased when Derek tugs his hair and pushes his facetowards his cock. What surprises him is when Derek holds Stiles’ head still ashe bucks his hips, the head smearing precum across Stiles’ cheek and lips. Hecan’t help but moan at the feeling.

“Is this what you wanted Stiles?”Derek growls, nudging his cock against Stiles lips, a pleased rumble escapingwhen Stiles opens his mouth allowing the head to slip past his lips. “Do youwant my cock in that pretty little mouth of yours?”

Stiles moans, his tongue moving tolap at the precum just waiting to be tasted before circling around the head andmoving back to the tip, reveling in the noises Derek is making. He’s suckedcock before, had plenty of time to experiment in college but this thisis what he’s been wanting. He’s dreamed of Derek’s cock, imaging what it wouldbe like to have him fucking into his mouth. Now that he finally has the tasteof Derek on his tongue he doesn’t know how he ever went without it.

Derek pulls him of his cock,earning a disgruntled whine from Stiles. He chuckles, bringing a finger toStiles’ bottom lip. “You never answered me.”

Stiles groans, letting his headdrop to Derek’s hip. “Seriously? How can you not tell I’ve been dying for youcock? That I’ve fantasized about how it would feel to have you in my mouth?Even when I was experimenting in college I was always wishing it was youI was blowing.“

Derek growls, his had tighteningin Stiles’ hair, "You’re not going to let anyone else near your mouth, areyou? Or any part of you. You’re mine.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Yeahyeah. I get it, big possessive Alpha. I don’t see how now is the time for thisconversation, but in case the big I love you reveal didn’t do it for you, Idon’t want anyone else Derek. I only want you. No cock besides yourswill ever slip past these lips again.”

“Good,” Derek says, tuggingStiles’ hair again. Apparently that was going to be a thing. Not thatStiles minded.

Stiles smirks when Derek directshim back to his cock. At least he wasn’t afraid to ask for what he wantedanymore. Stiles opens his mouth, his tongue licking up Derek’s cock from baseto tip, then down and back, paying special attention to the pulsing vein on theway back up.

His breath leaves him for a momentwhen he glances up to see Derek has his head thrown back, eyes closed and mouthhanging open as he gives off almost wanton little moans that go straight toStiles’ cock.

Derek’s hold on his hair isn’t astight as it was, allowing Stiles to move as he pleases. He uses that now, butwhat he’s really hoping for is for Derek to lose a little bit of his carefullycrafted control. He can see Derek’s already getting there. Knowing that Derekis allowing Stiles to see him like this, so open and even vulnerable sends athrill through him. Stiles wants, no he needs, more. He needs Derekdesperate and begging. Maybe not now, they’ve spent too much time building upto this. Right now it’s enough just knowing it’s a possibility.

Stiles shakes himself out of histhoughts, moving his mouth to lap at the head of Derek’s dick, moaning as thetaste of precum hits him again. He moves down, taking the head in his mouth,tongue swirling out around it. Then he starts bobbing his head, taking Derek inlittle by little. Filthy moans slip past his lips and he’s pleased when hefeels Derek grip his hair harder.

He pulls off Derek with a wet pop,looking up at Derek to see him looking back, a pout on his lips. He should notbe thinking Derek’s adorable when he’s in the middle of sucking his cock butthere’s no other word for it.

“Show me how you want it,” Stiles says,voice slightly hoarse already.

He moves back down, taking Derek’scock in his mouth and then he just stays still, eyes lifting up to meetDerek’s. The way Derek’s looking back him has Stiles moaning around Derek’scock. That seems to spur Derek into action. He grips Stiles’ hair and beginslowering Stiles head down onto his cock. He’s careful at first, Stiles can tellhe doesn’t want to push him too far. He needs a way to reassure him that he’sfine with this. So when Derek lowers him down, Stiles swallows, earning achoked off moan from Derek. Feeling pleased, he does it again.

“Stiles,” Derek warns, handgripping Stiles’ hair even tighter. “If you don’t stop this is going to be overfar too soon.

Good, Stiles thinks. He swallowsagain, moaning around Derek’s cock, while letting his tongue run across theunderside.

Derek lets out a harsh breath,pulling Stiles back up. Stiles thinks he’s going to stop, maybe pulling him allthe way off. He doesn’t. Instead he keeps a firm hold on Stiles’ hair andstarts fucking into his mouth. All Stiles can do is moan, letting Derek fuckinto his throat. He should feel used, but he doesn’t. He wants this, he’s beenwanting this. Getting Derek to let go enough to seek his own pleasure is whathe was aiming for.

Stiles can tell Derek is gettingclose by the way his thrusts become more desperate. Stiles looks up,unsurprised to see Derek’s eyes on him. He brings his other hand up, running italong Stiles’ cheek, feeling the way his cock is fucking into Stiles’ mouth.There’s a sort of awe there beneath of the desire. Stiles moans again, keepinghis eyes locked on Derek, enjoying the way his breathing becomes even shallower.

He grips Stiles’ hair in warning.Stiles knows what’s coming even before Derek opens his mouth. “Fuck Stiles I’mclose. Should I…?”

Stiles narrows his eyes, releasinga growl of his own that has Derek gasping and cursing. Stiles swallows, movinghis head in time with Derek’s thrusts. Derek’s eyes glow red, an almost primalhowl escaping his lips as he cums, spilling down Stiles’ throat.

Stiles swallows it down, eyesstill locked on Derek’s as he does. Derek’s shoulders sag, body leaning againstthe wall as he slips from Stiles’ mouth. Stiles lets out a noise ofdisappointment, earning a chuckle from Derek. He holds out his hand, cuppingStiles’ chin. “C’mere.”

Stiles goes, getting to his feetshakily. Derek pulls him close, a hand on his hip and the other brushing acrossStiles’ face. “Look at you,” Derek breathes, “I wish you could see yourselfright now, see how absolutely wrecked you look and you haven’t even came yet.So beautiful.”

Stiles wants to argue that he hasa pretty good idea just by looking at Derek. He imagines he does lookworse though with his hair a mess from the way Derek was gripping it so tightlyand mouth most likely red and swollen from where Derek was using him for hispleasure. He kind of does wish he could see it.

“I wish I could get a picture ofyou like this,” Derek murmurs. “Though I suppose there will be otheropportunities.”

Stiles closes his eyes, thethought of Derek using him again making him release a shaky moan as lust fillshim. He’s still achingly hard and needing to come. He also knows they need towash the rest of the paint off Derek before the water gets cold.

“We need to get you cleaned up,”Stiles says, voice raw from the way his throat was just abused.

Derek arches an eyebrow, “Whatabout you?”

“Believe me, I want to have yourhands on me so bad,” Stiles looks from where his erection is standingproud against his stomach back up to Derek. “But I also need you to get thispaint off you before it stains.”

Derek smiles fondly at him,leaning in to kiss him. Stiles falls into it, letting Derek pull him close andslip his tongue into his mouth. He pulls back, nudging Stiles’ cheek with hisnose. “Why don’t you check out the damage? In case you’re forgetting, I waswearing clothes so most of the paint didn’t even touch my body.”

He has a point there. Stiles poutswhen Derek pulls away but it quickly disappears when Derek turns around, givingStiles the perfect view of his ass. He really can’t wait to sink his teeth intoit later.

“Well?” Derek asks, craning hishead to look at him. “How’s it look?”

“Mouthwatering,” Stiles saysbefore he can stop himself. He clears his throat when Derek laughs. “I mean,there’s no paint. You’re good.”

Derek grins, crowding Stiles intothe wall. Stiles is momentarily overwhelmed by the immense difference betweenthe temperature of Derek’s warm body and the cool tile at his back.

“It’s your turn now,” Derek says,voice low and raspy. “What do you want Stiles?”

There are dozens upon dozens ofthings that Stiles wants. Most of them not fitting for their current setting,and some he knows he would barely last through. He’s been hard so long. “Ijust… God Derek I just need your hand on me. I’m so close already.”

Derek smirks, letting his teethgraze across Stiles’ jaw up to his ear. His breath is hot where it’s ghostingacross his skin, making Stiles shiver. “I think we can make that happen.”

Stiles groans when Derek’s handfirsts around his cock, giving a few slow drags. He tries to hold back but hecan already tell this is going to be over embarrassingly fast.

“Let go Stiles,” Derek rasps. “Youwanted me to take my pleasure so now it’s time you take yours. Unless you wantme to do all the work?”

Stiles can’t quite meet Derek’sgaze. He does want that. He knows he could get himself off by fuckinginto Derek’s fist, and one day he will. Right now He wants Derek to get him offwith just his hand. Derek continues stroking as he waits for Stiles’ response.It never comes. Stiles’ brain is short circuiting from just the feeling ofDerek touching him.

“Please Derek,” Stiles’ brokenvoice sounds. He’s not even sure what he’s begging for. He just needs to come.

“What is it?” Derek asks, takingStiles’ chin in his hand and making Stiles meet his gaze, his other hand stillgiving slow stokes to Stiles’ cock. “What do you want? Tell me?”

“Faster, please.” Stiles says,throwing his head back against the tile. “I need you to go faster.”

Stiles can feel Derek smiling ashe hides his face in Stiles’ neck but he can’t do anything but moan as Derek’shand tightens around his cock and he speeds up his stokes. He moves his headdown, nudging Derek’s. Derek must understand because he lifts his head,bringing their lips together. Stiles grips Derek’s shoulder and brings hisother hand up, carding through Derek’s hair as he deepens the kiss.

He can feel the tightening in hisgut already and knows he won’t last much longer. He pulls back, resting hisforehead against Derek’s, panting against his mouth. “I’m close,” he says,mouth brushing against Derek’s as he speaks.

“Good,” Derek says, hand speedingup it’s pace. “Come for me Stiles.”

Stiles can only hold on as Derekbrings him towards the sweet release he’s been longing for. It hits himsuddenly and with more force than he’s expecting. Derek’s words giving me thepush he needed to let go.

“Oh shit. Fuck. Derek.” He moans,body jerking as he comes, Derek’s hand on his hip the only thing stopping himfrom sliding to the floor.

His head falls back as he tries toget control of his breathing, barely aware of anything else. At least until hehears Derek moaning and looks over to see him licking Stiles’ cum off hisfingers. Stiles reaches for Derek, pulling him in for a kiss, moaning at thetaste of his own cum on Derek’s tongue.

Stiles pulls back with a sigh,resting his head against the wall. He can feel the water getting cold and knowsthey need to get out soon. He’s more than happy with it. It’s still early andhe’s definitely going to be making Derek stay and sleep in with him.

Stiles looks over Derek, fingersbrushing through his hair as he searched for any trace of paint. He’s relievedwhen he doesn’t see any. He places a kiss to Derek’s lips before moving to turnthe water off. He peeks his head out, relieved when he spots towels nearby. Hehands one to Derek before quickly drying himself off the best he can before wrappingthe towel around his waist.

He steps out, turning around tosee Derek climbing out after him. His hair is rumbled and skin slightly flushedand Stiles has the urge to kiss him, so he does. He keeps it soft, just lettinghis lips gently bush against Derek’s before pulling back. He takes Derek’s handin his, swinging it between them as he looks up at Derek hesitantly. “Will youstay?”

Derek smiles, kissing Stiles’ headas he puts an arm around him. “Yeah. I’m not going anywhere.”

Stiles doesn’t even bother puttingon clothes when he gets to his room, just drops the towel and crawls into bed.He looks over to see Derek standing next to the bed, hands on the top of thetowel wrapped around his waist.

“We’re just going to sleep,”Stiles says, feeling his exhaustion return to him now that’s he’s back in hisbed. “I’m not going to jump you. But if you want something to sleep in I havesweats that might fit you in the bottom drawer.”

Derek looks from the dresser backto Stiles, clearly contemplating, before dropping the towel. He just standsthere a moment, hands on his hips and Stiles can’t help but look his fill. Hiseyes trace along Derek’s body, taking his time to take it all in before movingback up to Derek’s face. Derek is smirking at him, clearly knowing exactly whathe’s doing.

Stiles rolls his eyes, “Just getinto bed, you asshole.”

Derek huffs a laugh, pulling backthe covers and crawling in next to Stiles. Stiles is surprised when Derek curlsup next to him, a leg thrown over his hip as he rests his head on Stiles’chest. Stiles has a moment to wonder just how often Derek has let himself beheld like this. Probably not all that often. Stiles makes a vow to do what hecan to give Derek the things he desires, whether he voices them or not.

Epilogue:

Stiles shrieks, backing up intoDerek’s Camaro when something bright blue runs across his yard towards him.It’s only when it gets closer that Stiles realizes what it is. The stray cathe’s been feeding. The one Derek had said tripped him and made him knock painteverywhere. Apparently the cat hadn’t avoided the spilled paint.

Stiles sighs, picking the cat up.“Alright you, let’s get you cleaned up. It’s about time you had a home anyway.”

Derek stares at Stiles when hewalks into the house with the cat on his arms. He looks towards the ceilingbefore releasing a long sigh. “I’ll go get the pet shampoo.”

“It’s where I always keep it forwhen I wash your fur,” Stiles calls after him, earning an “I know” from Derek.

Stiles does in fact keep the cat.A few months later, when Stiles moves in with Derek he brings her with him.Derek, the softie he is, had installed a cat tree and put in a ledgeoverlooking the living room for the cat to sleep on. Stiles has never beenhappier than he is right now in the home he shares with Derek and their catBlue.

#ravenwolf36 #sterek #sterek fanfic #my fanfiction #Smut #i don't know what this is #it spiraled so much #omg

26 notes · View notes

paintedrecs · 8 years ago

Text

Jump me, bro?

Prompted myself with: “I just want a neighborhood AU where Stiles is the bro-iest bro to ever bro and Derek pines after him anyway.”

I’m trying to get better about moving my twitterfics over to a more readable format without overthinking them, so we’ll see how that goes. (Also on AO3)

Derek’s house is a couple doors down from what he’s pretty sure is a frat house-wannabe. He’d drop the qualifier—as an undergrad, he’d unfortunately lived close enough to frat row to recognize the distinctive loud parties, music thumping late into the night, a stream of girls constantly flowing in and out the doors, bros drunkenly crooning along to badly-tuned guitars—but as far as he can tell, all of the guys are at least a few years out of college.

Resisting the urge to call the cops with a noise complaint takes some effort. Derek doesn’t particularly want to be that guy, though; he still has to live in this neighborhood. And a part of him, much as he doesn’t want to admit it, simply wishes he’d been invited. It’s not that it sounds like fun, exactly. Derek didn’t enjoy those types of parties when he was in college, and he’s not nearly old enough yet for the nostalgia to kick in. It’s just that...well, it would be nice to be included.

He carefully doesn’t think about the fact that the shift from outright irritation to a sort of wistful longing happened around the time that he saw one particular guy hanging around in front of the house, surrounded by his friends.

Derek does not find frat bros attractive. He never has. He never will. A certain long-limbed guy with an infectious laugh and warm brown eyes won’t change that.

He finds other ways to channel his frustration, some more productive than others. On nights when he takes his trash to the curb, he makes his way down to the overstuffed bins haphazardly jumbled in front of the pseudo-frat house. Under cover of darkness, shielded by the noise pouring through the brightly-lit windows, he sorts through the upper layers of his neighbors’ trash, separating stacks of greasy pizza boxes from sticky piles of beer cans.

It’s primarily to be a good citizen. Every house in the neighborhood has separate recycling bins—they’re even color coded, making it incredibly easy to put the correct materials in the appropriate spot. Derek’s just doing his part for the environment, since his obnoxious neighbors refuse to take a few extra seconds out of their day. At least, that’s what he tells himself when he’s sticking his fingers in strangers’ trash. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t count as trespassing if he’s not actually going into the yard, and he’s not stealing anything. Just...moving things around a little.

The other reason’s one he doesn’t like to dwell on. The rational side of his brain recognizes that the guys in this house don’t even know him, so why would they invite him over? This isn't like high school, when he was the nerd people intentionally ignored. They’re living their lives, he’s living his, and it’s perfectly natural for them to not intersect.

But one night, as Derek slaps the lid of the recycling bin shut, wishing he’d brought a roll of paper towels or maybe even some wet wipes, he looks up and finds one of the bros standing on the front porch, watching him.

Derek freezes in place. He can’t immediately identify the person; from the street, all he can see is a tall, athletic figure backlit by the open front door. He’s expecting to be chased off the property, probably cussed out in the process, but the guy comes down the steps and lifts the lid of the recycling bin, dropping his empty beer can inside.

“Thanks for doing that, bro,” he says. “The guys don’t spend a lotta time thinking about the environment.”

It’s not just a bro. It’s the bro. The one Derek hasn't been able to stop thinking about. His first time speaking to Derek, and it’s because he caught Derek rummaging around in his garbage late at night.

“You’re uh, you’re welcome,” Derek says.

Fortunately, the guy doesn’t seem to care about getting an explanation. He introduces himself instead: Stiles. Of course his name would be equally intriguing, Derek thinks, annoyed with himself for even caring about this interaction.

Derek gives his name in turn, wondering if he should point out his house to make his presence here seem less weird, but Stiles doesn’t seem inclined to linger in the cold. He heads back inside, giving Derek a brief, friendly wave before shutting the door again.

It still wasn’t an invitation. Not that Derek would’ve said yes. Probably. But after that, Stiles always takes a minute to say hi when he sees Derek around, even when he's got pretty girls clustered around him.

Derek will nod back, then tear his gaze away, not wanting to see them disappear from view, not wanting to begin cataloguing Stiles’s type.

One morning, when Derek's heading to work, he sees Stiles standing in the street, the hood of an old Jeep open. He’s alternating between sipping from a travel mug and frowning down at the engine. Derek stops with his car door open, not sure if he should offer help.

Stiles sees him then, and he cups a hand to the side of his mouth to call down the street. “Bro! You mind giving me a jump?”

Derek winces. It’s early still, and Stiles’s voice was unnecessarily loud, his hearing probably still shot from the previous night’s party.

He forgoes yelling a response back; instead, he raises his hand with a silent thumbs up and starts his engine, pulling his car up to the Jeep.

Stiles is jittery with energy, his earnest “Thank you” coffee-scented and still a little loud. He steps back from Derek then—not that Derek was planning to complain about their close proximity—and sets his mug on top of the Jeep so he can pull out a tangle of jumper cables. As he hooks them up, he explains, “Got a new job. It’s my first day with these hours, and I guess Roscoe's not happy with the cold morning air."

"Not a morning Jeep," Derek says. He’s thinking not a morning person about Stiles, but that’s a little too obvious and probably a bit too personal for their level of acquaintance.

To Derek’s surprise, Stiles chuckles. “Never has been,” he says. “Usually it works out pretty well for the two of us, but I had to suck it up and take a 9-to-5 this time. I’m not sure which of us is less happy about it, but at least I managed to wake up.”

“You needed coffee, not a jolt of electricity,” Derek says, and Stiles laughs again.

“Touché, dude.” He nods at Derek to start his engine and retrieves his coffee, his long fingers wrapping around the sleek metal surface, his throat bobbing as he drinks. He sighs, closing his eyes, letting the liquid warm him up and help to rinse away whatever shreds of sleep are still clogging up his tired brain.

From inside his car, Derek takes the opportunity to examine him for a minute. It’s the first time he’s seen Stiles without a backwards baseball cap. He hadn’t even been entirely sure of his hair color before. It’s a nice shade of brown—on the darker side, with some natural highlights that give it a glossy shine.

Stiles has always been handsome. Derek isn’t the only person who thinks so; he's got a magnetic presence that makes it hard to look away from him. He’s generally a center of attention at his house parties, something that’s hard to ignore when the crowd spills out onto the porch and clusters into talkative clumps around the yard.

But seeing Stiles in nicer clothes makes Derek recklessly drop the off-limits label he'd placed on him. He’d been keeping his interest at a theoretical level. Stiles is a good-looking guy Derek speaks to now and again. That’s all. There’s been no reason to actually get attached.

Rationally, he knows it makes more sense to find a guy approachable when he’s wearing jeans and t-shirts. The atmosphere of that house, though, brings back too many memories of people Derek doesn't want to be a part of his life now. So a dress shirt (clearly not ironed), khakis, hair that's had some attempt at styling put into it...something about it makes Derek relax.

He gets out of the car, and Stiles opens his eyes, his lashes parting slowly, as though he’d been falling asleep on his feet.

“Go ahead and try it,” Derek says.

The Jeep’s engine rumbles to life. Success, Derek thinks, frustrated with himself for wishing it’d taken longer to get Stiles on the road.

But Stiles doesn’t seem to want to head to work immediately. He leaves his engine running and finishes off his coffee while chatting with Derek—a friendly, easy conversation that Derek finds himself enjoying more than he probably should.

When they part ways, Stiles is grinning at him, and Derek's heart is fluttering. Just a little.

He makes a point of being out of his house at the same time the next morning, and sure enough, Stiles is at his Jeep, shoulders slumped.

"Bro!" he says, face beaming, when Derek pulls his car up next to him. "You're a lifesaver, I swear."

The same thing happens every weekday for...too long.

"You should really take this to a mechanic," Derek says eventually.

He's pretty sure this isn't a sustainable way to keep a car running. Is Stiles getting the car jumped on the way home from work, too, or is it really just the cold mornings that leave it sluggish?

Stiles shrugs off the advice and slams his hood shut with a bang. "Thanks for the input, bro," he says before hopping inside and pulling away. The Jeep’s engine rumbles loudly down the street, somehow sounding as annoyed as Stiles had.

Derek struggles with whether to feel guilty about that exchange. He was only trying to help. Maybe Stiles doesn't have a lot of money to spare?

He thinks about it over the weekend. That house is packed, probably well past its intended capacity. Derek still isn’t completely sure who lives there and who’s visiting, but there are enough guys hanging around on a regular basis that they must all share rooms. Plus, Stiles only seems to own three nice shirts; he cycles through them, sometimes wearing the same one two days in a row. Derek only notices because he’s an observant kind of guy. Obviously not because he’s paying way too much attention to everything about Stiles.

The guys do drink an awful lot of beer, which at first glance is an expense that doesn’t necessarily go with money-pinched wallets. Not that Derek’s judging; he drinks, too, although it's mostly a glass of wine with dinner, maybe some whiskey on the rocks after a long day. From his time sorting garbage, though, Derek’s aware that his neighbors are generally drinking the cheapest brand you can find. He’s also been starting to suspect that half their parties are a ploy to get people to bring them food.

So on Sunday night, when all the windows in the house have finally gone dark and Derek's fairly certain everyone inside is fast asleep, he sneaks out with a box of tools and a work light and slides under Stiles’s Jeep.

It’s actually not as bad as he’d been expecting. If the battery’s not holding its charge, it most likely needs to be replaced. Before ordering a new one, though, he’d wanted to make sure he wasn’t missing anything else. With a vehicle that old, there are any number of other issues that could be causing problems. Fortunately, it looks to be in decent shape for its age. He'll need to order some parts to fix it up for the longer term, but he's able to do some initial work with what he has on hand.

When he’s done, Derek pats the underside of the Jeep and quietly promises, “We’ll get you feeling like yourself again.” That was a stupid move, because one of the issues he does need to fix is a leak, and now his hand’s smeared with oil.

He sighs, snaps off his work light, and pushes himself out from under the Jeep, grimacing at the grease he’s gotten on his clothes. He’s in the middle of considering whether he should bother putting these in his washing machine—he’d gone with threadbare jeans and a ratty old shirt, so throwing them away is another option—when he sees bare feet and plaid pajama pants.

His gaze trails up to a dark line of hair leading into the pants—where it catches briefly, his breath stuttering—then to a bare chest, with well-muscled arms folded across it. He swallows.

"Bro," Stiles says disapprovingly.

Derek gets to his feet and tries to wipe his oily hands off on his jeans. They're definitely a lost cause now.

"I was—" he starts, trying to figure out how to explain being underneath Stiles's Jeep in the middle of the night. He fell? Saw a loose cat?

Before he can get anywhere with those ideas, Stiles pointedly looks down at the incriminating evidence of Derek’s toolbox.

Well. He definitely didn't drag those along while chasing a stray cat across the street.

"I had some time on my hands," Derek says. "I thought I'd take a quick look. See if there's something that's easy to fix."

"Time on your hands," Stiles says. "At 2 AM. You're in bed by 10:30 most nights, bro."

"That's—” Derek starts to protest, even though it’s true; he’d actually fallen asleep at 9 the night before, only waking up and dragging himself off the couch and into bed when he dropped his book on his face. He stops, Stiles’s words catching up to him, and suspiciously asks, “Wait, how do you know that?"

Stiles suddenly looks a little embarrassed and doesn’t reply.

With Derek’s work light shut off, they're lit only by the soft orange glow of the street lamps. It's enough to see Stiles’s expressions, as well as the sleep-mussed state of his hair and the pebbling of his nipples in the cold.

Stiles pushes his crossed arms higher up his chest, as though he sees Derek looking. It's Derek's turn to flush.

"It's not a permanent fix," Derek says. He bends to pick up his toolbox. Stiles's eyes snap away when he straightens.

"Harping on me about the damn mechanic again," Stiles says, sounding tired and grumpy. "Roscoe's doing fine. So what if he's not like your car."

The comment shouldn't hurt, but it kinda does. Derek knows his beige four-door sedan isn't the flashiest or most personality-filled thing. It's reliable. He shoves the sharp pang down; he's taking things too personally again. Stiles doesn't mean anything by it. He doesn't know that Derek made a point of buying the most practical car he could or that he’d learned everything he knows about cars from his dad, who was a mechanic.

That's how Derek's parents had met, actually; his mom had taken her car in for regular service, which had swiftly turned into a far more expensive and stressful experience than she’d anticipated. She’d demanded to talk to the owner, outraged over the extra charges the mechanics were trying to trick her into paying for.

Derek's dad had come forward to listen to her concerns. She was the most beautiful woman who’d ever yelled at me, he liked to say while retelling the story. He’d taken her back onto the workfloor after handing her a long coat to cover her blouse and pencil skirt and making sure she exchanged her stilettos for an extra pair of his overlarge boots, stuffed with ripped out magazine pages so they’d stay on. He’d then fixed her car while she’d watched, patiently answering every single question she asked and knocking a significant amount off the final total anyway.

Derek's car is reliable because he bought it with that in mind, but also because he takes good care of it, like he was taught from a young age. Some of his earliest memories are of hanging out in their driveway, handing tools to his dad and standing on his tiptoes to see inside the engine as his dad explained what he was doing.

Stiles's Jeep has clearly been well-loved; Derek isn’t an expert like his dad was, but he knows what to look for and how to tell when an owner’s been neglecting maintenance. That doesn’t seem to be the case here.

"Your Jeep needs more work," Derek says. Stiles isn’t wrong about where he was heading with that statement. "But I got enough of a look at it to know what parts to order. As long as things are in stock, I should be able to do the rest next weekend, if you want. It'll run a lot smoother."

Stiles stares at him, then slowly unfolds his arms, letting them drop to his sides. "Why?" he asks.

That's hard for Derek to answer. He clears his throat and shakes the toolbox a bit, letting the metallic jangle settle him. "I'd rather not worry about you," he eventually says. “It’s important for your car to be running well. For your safety.”

Stiles shifts his stance, relaxing his posture, and the streetlamps catch his eyes, almost making them seem to glow. Derek forces himself to not duck his head or be the first to break the slightly intense eye contact.

"The last time I took Roscoe in," Stiles says, "they basically refused to work on him. They kept telling me it'd be less expensive and a lot less of a hassle to junk him and start over."

"People don't always value things the same way," Derek says.

Stiles reaches out and touches the hood of his Jeep with the tips of his fingers. It’s an unexpectedly tender gesture that makes a lump spring to Derek’s throat for some reason. "They don't," he agrees. He looks at Derek, thoughtfully examining him for a long moment, then asks, "You really think you can fix him up?"

"I can," Derek says.

Stiles nods. “Okay,” he says. He pats the Jeep—an affectionate goodnight—and turns to head back to his house. He stops after only a few steps and turns back. "Thanks, Derek," he says.

"No problem, Stiles," Derek says, his heart warm, despite the evening chill. There’s a breeze beginning to pick up, gusting down the street.

Stiles, who must be much colder than Derek, bites his lip and looks at his house. Its windows are still dark and silent, the rest of his roommates slumbering peacefully while he stands outside in the dark. He looks back at Derek. "Maybe you'd let me buy you coffee sometime? Or dinner?"

"Sure," Derek says, too quickly for it to be a casual response. Unthinkingly, he taps his toolbox against the side of his leg.

Stiles's gaze darts down to it. "Not as payment," he clarifies. "I'll pay you for the stuff with Roscoe. I'm not a cheapskate. I'd just...like to have dinner with you, if that's okay." He looks nervous.

"You don't have to pay me," Derek says.

He forges on when Stiles's expression tightens, clearly ready to argue the point. They'll hash that out later. Derek can always quote him a figure with a significant amount knocked off the total.

"Dinner with you would be nice," Derek says. "I'd really like that."

Stiles smiles at him, almost shyly. "Okay," he says. "G’night, Derek."

"Goodnight, bro," Derek says, grinning now, unable to stop the happiness from beaming out of him.

Stiles's laugh echoes down the street. "Oh shut up," he says, rubbing at the back of his neck in embarrassment, but still grinning. It makes his hair stick up even more. Derek’s not sure he’s ever looked more attractive. "You were really hot, okay? I was trying to...distance myself. Make sure you knew I wasn't trying to hit on you or anything."

"It worked," Derek says. Tonight definitely caught him by surprise. A part of him’s still wondering if he'll wake up tomorrow and find out it was all a dream.

But Stiles comes closer. He gets a hand on Derek's jaw and tilts his face until their mouths meet.

It feels real, Derek thinks, then stops thinking.

When Stiles steps back, he looks cocky again, like that guy Derek first saw on the porch. Derek couldn’t be more into it.

"Well, this is me hitting on you," Stiles says. "Just so there's no confusion."

"Got it," Derek says.

***

Derek gets invited to the next party after that. The guys all turn out to be nice; they're friendly and welcoming, and their off-key singing doesn’t sound quite as bad from inside the house. Plus, there’s a lot less frenzied making out and near-orgies than he’d been picturing—usually dejectedly, with Stiles at the heart of them. It actually looks like one of the groups is trying to take over a corner of the living room for some type of board game he doesn’t recognize.

He still kinda hates it.

It doesn’t take long before Stiles grabs him by the hand and tugs him out of the corner he'd tucked himself into. "Wanna grab a pizza box and get outta here?" he asks.

"I've got wine," Derek says, trying not to sound too relieved.

Stiles laughs and takes the time to kiss him before snagging a box on the way out, handing it to Derek to carry. "Then I don't need this," he says, draining the last swallow from his beer can and dropping it carefully into the recycling bin, smirking at Derek the entire time.

"Shut up," Derek says, even though Stiles hadn't actually said anything about their first interaction. He didn't need to.

"You had a weird way of flirting," Stiles says.

"I wasn't flirting," Derek protests. Then, because their first few dates went too well to think otherwise, "It worked, didn't it?"

"Take me home and I'll show you how well it worked," Stiles says.

He's wearing a backwards baseball cap. He's grinning. He's beautiful.

#eternalsterek #sterek #my fics #my tumblr fics #my twitter fics #derek hale #stiles stilinski #haleinski #nerd!derek

845 notes · View notes

just-jordie-things · 8 years ago

Text

Just Friends (part two) - Stiles Stilinski

A/N: **MAY BE TRIGGERING** drug use+overdose, suicide

A whole month. A month of being friends with Stiles. Best friends, really, seeing he was the closest person you had. But there’d been a month of eating lunch together every other day. (on the other days he’d eat with his friends). A month of walking to classes and lockers together. A month of texting each other during classes to carry on conversations you didn’t want to end. A month of fangirling about Star Wars. A month of him driving you home in his jeep, which you found out he called Roscoe. A month of hanging out at his house, planning to study but always watching tv. A month of being best friends with Stiles, and a month of him never going to your home.

Sure, he’d dropped you off there, but never walked through the doorway. Just to your porch, where you’d thank him, say goodbye quickly, and rush inside. The door always seemed to close on him before he could blink. But he never really pushed the subject. Which made you glad, you didn’t want to drag him into your drama.

It was Friday night, and you were currently walking to his house, he’d invited you over, and since you didn’t have a car... your only option was walking. But you didn’t mind. The weather was nice, and it was a good excuse to listen to music. His house was really only a twenty minute walk anyways.

When you arrived, Stiles opened the door, grabbed your wrist gently, and pulled you in. “Come on, this is gonna be so much fun” He said enthusiastically, bringing you all the way into the kitchen.

“Stiles why are we-”

“Do you know what today is?” He asked, blocking your view into the room.

“Um.. Friday?”

“Yes, but I mean holiday wise” He said.

“I don’t know-”

“It’s our friend-iversary!” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his arms up and moving so you could see the table. On it, was a cake, which looked homemade, and on it was messily scribbled in frosting, ‘happy one month friendship anniversary!’. You had to giggle at his awful culinary and decorative skills.

“It’s wonderful Stiles... but I didn’t get you anything, like a gift or something” You said with a slight frown.

“No no, I didn’t either, I just thought I’d make dessert and we could hang out the whole night” He shrugged, and you nodded.

“That sounds great” You smiled, walking into his kitchen and getting two plates, and two forks.

You ended up eating the whole cake together, while sitting on his bed and watching tv. A Marvel marathon of course. You were currently on Captain America: The Winter Soldier. It was late, the both of you laying with your backs against the headboard of his bed, a laptop playing the film between you. Your eyes were beginning to give up staying open, and you often yawned quietly. In minutes, you were sleeping on Stiles’ shoulder unknowingly. He didn’t wake you up, or move you or anything, just smiled and pulled a blanket over you.

“For God’s sake y/n stop getting in the way!” Your older brother yelled at you. Your seven year old eyes welled up with tears. “I just want some privacy!” He exclaimed again.

“y/b/n please! Please I don’t want to be alone!” You sobbed outside of his room. He stood holding his door open and watching you cry.

Your mother and father had gone out for the night, and you’d had a bad dream. But when you’d come crying to your brother, he wanted nothing to do with you. He ‘d rather just finish his blunt before going to bed. His eyes were bloodshot red, face pale and lips swollen and chapped.

“Just go to bed, it was just a fucking dream” He’d sneered, and slammed the door in your face. You’d cried outside his room all night, falling asleep by the door.

When you woke up a few hours later from another nightmare, your sniffles resurfaced, and you knocked on your brother’s door again.

“y/b/n?” You called quietly. “I’m sorry, I won’t be annoying or loud” You promised. “Can I please just sleep in your room tonight?” You asked softly. “I’ll stay on the floor” You waited for an answer, but it didn’t come. “y/b/n?” You called again. Still no answer. You swallowed your fear, and hesitantly opened the door to the room.

You didn’t expect to find your brother lying on the ground with an empty bottle of your mother’s prescribed medication in his hand.

You awoke with a jump, tears steaming your cheeks. The action caused Stiles to jolt as well, looking from the movie to you.

“What time is it?” You asked quickly.

“Almost midnight do you want a ride or you can stay on the couch if you want-” Stiles stopped when he saw you were crying. “Hey.. hey what’s wrong?” He asked softly, reaching towards your face but you turned away, wiping your tears with the back of your hand.

“Just a bad dream” You said dismissively. “It’s nothing” Stiles got out of bed, opening a dresser drawer. “What’re you doing?” You asked, and watched him retrieve sweatpants and a tee shirt.

“Clothes for you to sleep in” He told you. He handed you the pajamas, and you took them with a hesitant hand.

“I don’t want your Dad to be angry-”

“He doesn’t care, he likes having you around” Stiles said with a smile, and you felt your chest warm at the idea of being wanted somewhere. “Now, I’ll let you change in here, just call when you’re finished and we can just lay and talk about this dream, okay?” You nodded, and he pushed your hair back from your face, thumb caressing gently over your forehead. “Alright, I’ll be back when you’re done” He said, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

You’d changed rather quickly, having to tie the sweatpants up high around your waist so the material didn’t trip you when you walked. Although it still came over your feet. You took a few extra minutes, wandering Stiles’ room, looking at picture frames he ad on his desk and walls. Pictures with him and his friend Scott McCall. You particularly liked the ones where he was just a kid, at the zoo with his family or playing outside with his friends. After looking around for just a little bit, you opened the door, seeing Stiles standing in the hall in his own sweats and tee shirt, scrolling on his phone. He smiled upon seeing you, and you both walked into his room.

“You don’t mind me sleeping here?” You asked. “It’s not gonna make anything... weird... right?” Stiles shook his head and pursed his lips.

“Things could never be weird between you and I” He said, collapsing onto the bed. You crawled in next to him. “So,” He started, “What was this nightmare about?”

“Oh, it’s fine, I’m okay now” You rushed, but he gave you a look. One that you knew meant he still wanted to know. You took a few deep breaths to calm your nerves. “I don’t want to scare you away” You whispered, not wanting to look up to him from the bed sheets. Stiles clasped a hand with yours.

“There’s nothing you could possibly say that would scare me away” Stiles said, giving you a smile that you saw in your peripheral view. He squeezed your hand, grabbing it in both of yours.

“It wasn’t..it wasn’t just a dream” You said quietly. “It was a memory” You breathed the words out, still worried and unsure about opening up to him. “Stiles I- I want to talk to you_ i want to tell you these things I do I really do-” Your voice cracked and when you looked at him, he saw the tears in your eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay, I promise” You licked your lips, breathing again.

“I had a brother” You said, and Stiles instantly felt a pang of sadness at your past tense mentioning of him. “And... and one night... my parents went out for date night and left us home” You breathed in sharply, and looked up at him. “I fell asleep and had a bad dream” You wiped your eyes with your free hand. “I went to his room, and I know that he was smoking... he did any time mom and dad left” A few more tears escaped. “He told me to go away, he yelled at me a lot, and I passed out in the hall outside his door” You sniffed, and Stiles let go of your hands to cup his own around your cheeks, thumbs brushing the tears away. “I woke up and-and I was scared again-” Your chest heaved and your lips quivered. Stiles’ brow knit together as he watched you unravel in front of him. “I opened the door, and he was there on the ground” You closed your eyes, and it was like you were reliving it all over again.

“It’s okay, I understand, you don’t have to say it” Stiles spoke softly, but you shook your head.

“I need to say it” You said, opening your eyes, and looking at him. “He killed himself. He OD’d on my dad’s pills...” You nodded slightly when you finished. Stiles’ thumbs rubbed circles in your skin.

“And how do you feel now?” He asked.

“You’re not gonna tell me you’re sorry for my loss?” Stiles shook his head no.

“I’ve heard that enough from my mother that I know it does nothing for anyone” You nodded again. “Is there... is there anything you want? Anything I can do?” You breathed out, and closed your eyes.

“Can we just... lay here for the night, I don’t really want to do anything” Stiles nodded, and watched you shuffle a little closer.

“Goodnight” He said, combing his hand through your hair with a soft smile.

“Goodnight Stiles” You responded softly.

xoxo ~ jordie i just want to say that it’s going to get pretty serious and intense in the chapters to come, and i just want readers to know that i’m always here to talk to :) ok i’m done with the sappy stuff. thanks for reading!

#teen wolf #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf scenario #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf x reader #stiles #stilinski #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski scenario #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski fanfiction #dylan o'brien #dylan o'brien imagine #dylan o'brien scenario #dylan o'brien x reader

304 notes · View notes

dylanowhy · 8 years ago

Text

Only Human - Stiles Stilinski Imagine

Author: dylanowhy (me)

Summary: Stiles Stilinski. Surrounded by a world of supernatural and strange, it’s hard to keep a hold of things, especially ones mind and with something new terrorizing the streets of Beacon Hills the unexpected happens, causing Stiles to react in the only way possible. He is only human after all.

Warnings: Language. Dark. Talk of death. Death of main characters. AU!Stiles

Word Count: 5,004

A/N: Okay, this is deep and dark. I needed a little break form the fluff and got inspired to write this. It’s a little different than what I am use to posting and I hope you enjoy it! Feedback is always welcomed.

They had made fun of him before. Knuckles turning white as he gripped the metal bat with such anger. How could Stiles carry around a bat as all his friends around him were filled with supernatural energy? What could a strong swing do compare to fangs and sharp nails of a werewolf, or the screeching scream of a banshee? Enough. It could do enough. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead, confused eyes were staring at him as if she didn’t know. “Stiles.” Her voice was breathless, shallow and he could hear the hope. Lydia Martin. The girl he had been so in love with since before the two understood what love was. He never thought he would be stalking towards her, only one idea in mind. He use to have happy thoughts, images on them kissing dancing in his head, ideas of holding her hand and telling her how much she really meant to him, how amazing she was and how she had such a beautiful mind even if she didn’t like to show it that often. But now, now he just wanted to see that beautiful mind painting one of the school walls. One by one, they were going to pay, and he was going to be okay with it.

“Scotty! Scott-o! Movie night, just us bros!” Stiles was excited. Although he enjoyed the idea of being needed around Beacon Hills, there hadn’t been any supernatural sightings for a while and he was liking the idea of having his normal life back. Him and Scott were spending a lot more time together like they did before, stuffing their faces with countless junk foods and lounging in their pajamas, just being comfortable with each other. However, when he looked at his best friend, his smile on his face immediately dropped. Scott was all uneven jaw and apologetic eyes, his lips pursed together. Stiles was starting to think he was gaining some weird wolf powers by association, like he could hear Scott’s heart beat through his chest. “Oh damn.” He sighed. “I’ll go put some real pants on.” Stiles hiked his way up his stairs so he could get ready for whatever was to come. He knew it was a little too good to be true. There was never a true break in this town. He was starting to wonder why he wasn’t being paid for this yet. Grabbing the keys to Roscoe before heading out, Scott patted him on the back as they exited the house and made their way to the clinic.

“Bless you.” Stiles said after Deaton, receiving narrowing eyes from nearly the whole group. He looked around at this moment, realizing how much their pack had minimized. Standing around a slab of steel was Scott, Malia, and Lydia. It caused a small tug at his heart and a falter in his smile, but he was Stiles so he did his best to hid that, like he always did. “I know it’s a little hard to pronounce, but it’s a very serious matter. These – creatures, they don’t care about common balance. They live off pain. And I’m not talking just a stub of the toe. Guilt, grief, loss, sorrow, you name it. They are admin on bringing one’s worse nightmare to a reality. And Beacon Hills is their new target.” Deaton went into detail, leading everyone in the room to share looks between terrified and lost. It felt like they had dealt with this before and yet it was entirely different. “How do we stop it?” Scott was always so quick to be a leader, he was the true alpha after all, but his voice was unsure and the sound of it drew Stiles eyebrows together. “It’s not as easy as it seems.” Deaton began, “I need a series of herbs. Some more valuable than others. Could take a week or more to gather it all, that’s why I brought you all here. Some of the ingredients wolves can’t get, but we know someone who can.” His eyes rose to meet Stiles and he practically choked on his own spit. “Me?!” He questioned, confusion all over his face.

“Yes, Stiles. We need a highly deadly wolfs bane by the name of Aconitum Lycoctonum. It is very rare, not too hard to find if you look in the right places. I’m not even sure if it’s okay for a Banshee to touch, which is why I need you to do it Stiles. Couldn’t complete this without you.” Deaton made it very hard to argue and Stiles couldn’t disagree that he liked the feeling of being needed for something that didn’t involve just driving his jeep. It got to the point where he was the arrival car and the getaway car, especially since no one ever listened to his plans or ideas. Or at least they didn’t until it was last resort or too late. Stiles had felt like he had been put on the back burner and it was now his time to shine, maybe bring some light that he most certainly deserved. “Got it.” He said with a nod and Scott gave him worried eyed, which he scoffed at. “What?! I can do it.” He protested, it brought a smile to Scott’s face. “I know you can.”

Scott said those words but Stiles felt like he didn’t exactly mean them, his smile mimicking fake hope, but Stiles didn’t save a word, just gave Deaton thumbs up and pretended like the strong feel of awkward was not lingering in the room around them. Deaton went on to explain what he needed and how the plan was going to go down. Horehound and Gentiana were on Malia and Lydia’s list, easier for them to handle due to their female qualities, warning the two boys not to go near the herbs. He didn’t give much detail than that, but the two have learned when Deaton heeds a warning, you listen. Scott had Devil’s Claw, which made Stiles eyes widen, the name allowing his ears to perk up, and Black Cohosh. Apparently the last one was easy because it was the root of the plant said, sometimes Stile wondered if Deaton remember that they were teenagers who had only been a part of the supernatural life for three years, also, they didn’t have the interest to look at plants all the time. He then realized that his task was left out. Everyone got details behind what they needed to get and more importantly where they could find the stuff but somehow Stiles stood there without any details of his own.

“What about me?” He asked, watching as everyone around he started to gather their things to leave, as if they had al forgotten. “Ah, yes, stiles. You’ll know it when you see it.” Deaton simply said with a nod. “Know it when I see it? Is that a joke? I don’t have magic vision, guys!” Stiles voice got louder with each word, watching as the people who once surrounded him left the room one by one. His hand he didn’t realize he lifted fell to his side, a sigh escaping him as he looked around the empty room. Something was off, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. It looked like it was going to be another late night of googling, printing, and tying two together. Sometimes he smiled at the fact he was the sheriff’s son. He got all of his mischief ways from him, learning from the source how to solve a crime or go after the clues, even the smallest ones. He learned from his dad not to give up, not even if it seems like the ends, because there is always something. If you keep looking, maybe in a way you didn’t before, there is always something.

“Skausmas Ieškotojas.” Stiles said proudly, bright smile on his face as he joined the others at the all too familiar lunch table at school. “You must be very proud of yourself.” Lydia mused, holding back a laugh that was aching to be let out. Stiles rolled his eyes, he could feel the redness creep up on his face and turned quickly to deny the fact. “Find anything?” Scott asked, at least he cared. “It literally translates to ‘pain seeker’ which if you ask me is the most unoriginal thing I have ever heard in my entire life.” – “They cause disaster, now this can be in many forms. Were talking natural, unnatural, personal. Doesn’t matter, like the Nogitsune fed off strife, they do the same with pain and will do whatever that can to do it. It dates to the early 1800s. Apparently, it started with physical pain but they soon learned that emotional pain fueled them more. It was so much more powerful, last longer. However, they are smart about it, always causing their little disasters in the perfect timing. Most believe they were the cause of the Peshtigo Fire.” Stiles finished his rambling as the pack blinked at him. “What time did you go to sleep?” Malia had an underlying tone to her voice and Stiles couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Don’t really know what that is at the moment.” So yes – Stiles had stayed up all night doing research about what they were dealing with. He didn’t see anything wrong with that. He did however see something wrong with how fascinating he had found the subject. Link after link, myth after myth. It was like finding out Scott was a werewolf for the first time all over again. He couldn’t stop himself.

“I say we start our hunt after school, try to find these things so whatever it is – We can stop it.” Scott was always the one with a plan. Well, that was not true. It was usually Stiles, but for him to be listened to, they had to go through Scotts failed plan first. It was a never-ending cycle, you’d think they would have learned by now. “Agreed.” Everyone said in unison. It was becoming kind of gimmicky, the way these things worked out. Stiles was stating to notice, starting to see a pattern that just didn’t add up like it used to. But he bit his lip, holding his comment back as he stuck a chicken finger in his mouth to keep him from saying anything.

It was that night the first disaster happened. The upsetting part was that Stiles could feel it. Like he knew it was going to happen, he just didn’t know when or where. “It’s just a feeling Scott.” For the first time in a while, Stiles not driving, and part of him was glad. He was shaking for some unknown reason and didn’t think he could drive straight. ”Like a Lydia feeling? An instinct? A what, Stiles? I don’t understand!” Scott was frustrated and Stile couldn’t blame him. They had been driving for thirty minutes, no idea where they were going, only Stiles knew and that was funny because he didn’t actually know. His nose scrunched up at the thought of being supernatural in some way. Of course, being the human of his friends he had imagined what it would be like if he had some superpower, something different though, maybe flying. He was knocked out of his thoughts when the jeep came to a roaring halt, his body jerking forward as his immediate reaction was to worry about his jeep. “Scott what the hell was—“ His words trailed and his eyes wondered, gleaming red before them. “That.” The rest of his words were a whisper as he heard the driver’s door open and slam.

In front of them was a fire, or maybe that was an understatement. It was nothing like the two boys have ever seen in their lives, and that was saying a lot knowing where they were coming from. It could have been just down the hill, or it could have been going for miles and the two wouldn’t have known, the flames being so unnaturally high that you wouldn’t be able to tell if you really tried. Scott neared the fire, causing Stiles to scream out. “I don’t think werewolves are fire resistant, Scott!” That got his attention, his body turning to face Stiles, a look of disbelief on his face. He couldn’t tell if it was at the fire, or at him, he did after all lead them there. Stiles face filled with confusion as he saw a flash of something on Scotts’, was it a bit of distrust? Stiles didn’t know how to react to that, didn’t know how to piece it all together. “I didn’t know.” He tried to reassure, because he didn’t know, he just knew that he felt a pang of guilt inside; a little bit of pain.

Deaton didn’t know what was going on either, and that’s what causes Scott to keep a close eye on Stiles. “I’m fine.” Stiles repeated for the seventh time today. “I am not saying you’re not fine, I am saying that something a little more Is going on here. You’re my best friend and I don’t want a repeat of last time.” The reminder brought flash backs to Stiles. He remembered it all, hell, it kept him up some nights. He remembered killing people, he remembered liking it. He remembered Allison and Aiden and all of the bad things and none of the good things. He nodded in response. “Nothing from Deaton?” Stiles pressed, closing his locker with a slightly louder bang than usual. “No. But I heard from Lydia earlier, they’ve got their things. Malia is going to come over to your place tonight and study so I can try to get the things I need.” Stiles sighed at Scott’s words. “Keeping an eye on me, you mean.” He corrected him about Malia, knowing good and well that she would not be there to study. Even when they did have study nights together they never really studied. “It’s only until we can really figure out what’s going on. Stiles, we just care.” Scott gave an award-winning smile, it only made Stiles frown even more.

It was two days later when Stiles came across it. He had escaped his grasp from his other three friends, he wasn’t sure on how he did it. It was like a mask had been put over them and he slipped away. He was walking in the park, it wasn’t his idea to come here, something just led him to it. Like a tiny voice in the back of his mind controlling him. He was passing a bench when he saw it out of the corner of his eye. There was a small bush with lily white hanging flowers, something too beautiful and precious to be growing at this time of the year. He felt like he was drawn to it, stalking towards the flower, scared it might fly away if he didn’t take it at once. It was enough to put him in a trance. The ever so small, delignate, sweet smell of it hit him like a truck, his mind becoming fuzzy. Only three flowers laid in his hand, and he yet he knew he had the answer to it all. It was time for another meeting, hopefully they will have all they need to do whatever they had to do to make this stop. To make things go back to normal.

“It’s done!” Deaton sat down a concoction of the most gross looking thing Stiles had ever seen. Don’t even get him started about the smell, something foul mixed with bitter, he had to stop himself from gagging. “What do we do with it?” Malia asked, hers and Scotts noses were turned up, their sense of smell being stronger then Stiles and Lydia’s. “You have to find them at work, use your eyes and you’ll be able to see them.” The last part of that sentence was directed towards the two wolves in the room. “Or possibly sound waves.” This time Deaton narrowed his eyes to Lydia and the whole group showed signs that they understood what he was saying. “The previous attack was not as successful as it seemed.” Deaton started to do that thing, were he paces around the pack, sharing stories. “What? 8 Killed. 12 Injured. Around 5 house lost in the fire. That’s not enough for them?” Lydia crossed her arms and Deaton and Stiles answered her at the same time. “No.” Everyone exchanged looks but Stiles kept his eyes on the steel slab, not wanting to make eye contact. Deaton continued, “The numbers are too small, the emotions not true to what they want. They will try again, with something bigger this time. But this time we have a plan.” – “We do?” Malia interrupted. “Yes. We do. We have a special insight, kind of like a weapon. We have someone who knows before they know.” His voice stopped behind Stiles and he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

“I don’t know how to work it.” Stile felt like he had said that several times. Now he knew what Lydia felt like, whenever they were trying to figure out what she was. All of the questions, confusion, and probing. “You don’t have to know, Stiles. You just have to feel. It will come to you, and when it does we need to act, and fast.” Deaton’s voice was distance again and it made Stiles relax, his shoulder slumped, he hadn’t even realized that he was so tense. “But the fire had already started before we got there.” Scott chimed in. “Correct, Scott. But didn’t you say it was quite a drive? It is a risk. I am not saying it’s not, but it’s all we’ve got. We just have to wait for Stiles to get a feeling, then we’ll act.” Deaton finally finished, stopped at his usually spot at the head of the slab, hands placed firmly on the top. “So more of the waiting game? Fun.” Malia’s sarcasm was the last thing to rang through the room and just like every time, the pack grabbed their things and headed out.

Two weeks. It took two weeks for Stiles to feel anything at all, but when he did. It hit him very hard. He shot up in his bed, breathing ragged as he clutched at his chest. It was like a panic attack but three times worse. He could breath, his mind was numb, and he was pretty sure his eyes were open but he couldn’t see. “Dad!” He called out, or so he thought, he could hear himself, nothing but a strong ringing in his ears. He tried again, “Dad!” He knew his dad would be able to call Scott and get him there as soon as possible, but there was no response. A sting in his chest caused his vision to come back and he stood up so sudden he thought he was going to fall. He felt his way around, his feet were guiding him, like he had no control. He made it to him dads door and opened it. Untouched sheets were before him, and another sting brought his hearing back. He could hear his phone faintly in the distance, and he tripped over his feet as he ran to it. “Scott.” Stiles spoke as he answered, his voice didn’t sound the same, almost distorted. Could this be a dream? Night terror? He had already been through this before, and yet it felt so different. “Get downtown, get there now.” There was a growl in Scotts voice that sent chills down Stiles spine in all of the completely wrong places.

He drove fast, he was sure his foot was completely on the floor. The amount of pain he was feeling was excruciating, he couldn’t describe it. Every move, every breath was agonizing, but he couldn’t think about that, couldn’t worry about himself when something bigger was happening. When he arrived, things have already escalated. Something was off and he knew it, because he could see everything. They were slender and ghostly, like something you find on a horror dedicated internet forum. His eyes widened as he brought the jeep to a screeching halt, scrambling to get out. “Stiles!” He heard, but it wasn’t coming from one of his three friends. It was coming from his dad. “What the hell is going on?!” Noah was frantic, not really scared but so confused. He was now beside Stiles, gun in hand as the battle continued in front of them. Stiles licked his lips, blinking back the thoughts roaming in his mind. “Can you see them?” His voice was low, but he knew his dad could hear him. “See what Stiles?” His father pressed closer and there was that sting again. “Go. Dad, leave. Get home. Now.” Stiles was all too calm for a situation like this, and he found it odd himself. But he had learned for the best, and panic was not a way to handle this.

“Stiles!” This time he heard his name coming from Scott. His voice was angry, he was all claws and fangs as he fought something that couldn’t be fought. Stiles got the hit, his hands reaching for something in his pocket. For some reason, they trusted Stiles with the jar filled with deadly things for these creatures, he was just lucky he had remembered it, although he didn’t remember picking it up. Once he had a firm grip on the jar he yelled after Scott, his legs quickly moving to run towards him, trying to get to him before something bad happened. And he knew something bad was going to happen, he could feel it running through his veins like some sick drug. He had to stop it, but before he could get to Scott, he found himself on the ground in a pool of fear. Standing or should he say, hoovering, above him was one of the deathly looking creatures. He could practically feel what they were feeling, hear what they were thinking. Their eyes were red like an alpha, but they didn’t hold the same meaning. Stiles kept a strong face, because he was good at that, so good he almost didn’t hear his friends yelling at him.

“Stiles, throw the jar. Throw it towards the middle, it’s the only way.” Lydia’s voice was the first to breakthrough as Stiles eyes snapped away from the creature and to his group of friends. They were no longer fighting, no longer needing to. That’s when Stiles realized they were all surrounding him, drawn to him like a magnet. He knew what he had to do, but part of him couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Get out of here!” Stiles voice was strong, powerful, something he wasn’t use to. “It’s wolfs bane, remember? Pretty powerful. I’ve got this. Just go and make sure everyone is okay, keep everyone safe.” And Scott understood this was something Stiles had to do. Scott wasn’t the type to leave his pack, to leave his friends, but this has been Stiles battle from the beginning and he knew that.

Once his friends were out of sight, his eyes narrowed at what was in front of him, darkening from his light golden orbs to a dark brown, something close to black. “You think you can come here, create all of these disasters, start things between my friends and I and get away with it?” He had somehow managed to get up on his feet by now, hand gripping the jar a little too tight, torn between throwing it and egged them on. The only thing that was stopping him was that they haven’t killed him yet. Hadn’t made a single advance towards him in the slightest, maybe it was because of the hidden connection, their eyes boring into him as he held his arm up high. “I drop this? You’re gone.” It was then he notices the eyes changing, becoming more demanding with need. Something shiny caught Stiles eye and he realized what it was, knives or something like daggers. He didn’t fear for him life though, he feared for someone else, someone in the distance. “Do it Stiles!” He heard the voice of Scott and his heart stopped.

He threw the jar down, an array of smoke floating around him. He heard a scream, but part of him blocked that out. The pain had returned, falling to his knees as he clutched at his heart. This time the pain brought tears to his eyes, although the ghostly figured around him were fading, his feeling were not leaving. He knew something was wrong, but couldn’t piece it together. He was coughing, wheezing even at how thick the smoke filled his lungs. His vision went burry again as he listened to the people talking behind him.

“Stiles! Stiles!” Malia yelled repeatedly, louder each time. He could hear the tears in her voice, could practically feel her shaking from where he was. “Call an ambulance, we need an ambulance! Stiles!” That was Scott, his voice echoing into the now empty surrounding them. The smoke was clearing and Stile brought himself to his feet, his body turned, eyes widen, the sight before him causing whatever moisture hiding behind his eyes to fall. “Dad.” It was a whisper, a broken whisper. His feet were dragging, he couldn’t even bare to run, his whole body still covering in pain. “Dad!” It was louder this time, and even though it hurt, he began to run.

Stiles sat in the sheriff’s office, eyes on the ground, hands covered in blood. How did this happen? He couldn’t figure it out, couldn’t understand what was going on. Flashbacks filled his mind, causing the dull ache to turn into pure agony. He wanted them to stop, he was crying in hopes of drowning out all of the voices in his head, all of the repeating of things said to him within the last hour. They all acted like nothing happen, like everything was okay. As if Stiles world wasn’t crashing around him at the speed of light. They treated it just like any other time someone dies. Come up with a lie to tell the police, stick with it, make it believable. Don’t give a damn about the people it happened to. Let it all blow over in a couple of days, act like nothing happened. It was disgusting.

“What happened?! What. Happened?!” Stiles screamed to Scott, his hands pressing on his dad’s body. Sticking out of where his heart should be being the exact object he saw in the creature’s hand, his eyes were cold, lifeless and Stiles was not allowing that to be the answer to things. It couldn’t be. His dad was more than his life, he was all he had, he refused to believe he was gone. Refused to think he didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. His dad always warned him that his job wasn’t easy. That he could be put in situations with outcomes neither of them would like, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was not supposed to be put in the hands of something supernatural. “I don’t know Stiles.” Those words that came from Scott were enough to light a fire inside of him, his eyes ripping away from his father and straight to the person who was supposed to be his best friend. “You don’t know?” Stiles voice was loud, there wasn’t a hint of anger in his voice just hatred, and that was scary. “I told you to leave. I told you to keep everyone safe! Is this your idea of keeping everyone safe?! You don’t listen Scott, you never, ever listen!” And he could tell those words hurt, everyone around them was crying but none of them understood the true pain. None of them understood what Stiles was really feeling.

Their fault. It was all their fault. If they would have listened, would have left like he said, his dad would still be here. He wouldn’t be covered in his blood, he wouldn’t have to go through this. But they didn’t listen and now here he was, sitting, hurting. He should be used to it, them not listening. They never listened to Stiles, whenever they did it was always too late, things just never changed. He guessed the Skausmas Ieškotojas got what they wanted after all. The ultimate emotion of pain, the feeling of loss and betrayal. “Werewolves.” It was something he never wanted to bring his dad into, something he never wanted him to know about. He remembers arguing with Scott about it, because he knew his dad wouldn’t grasp it right away, but he also knew of the danger it would put him in. “Banshees.” It helped with a few things, sure, but the risk was too great and now his body filled with regret, he should have went with his first instinct. “What else is there?” He felt himself laugh, but it wasn’t a normal laugh, it was much darker than that. “Doesn’t matter anymore.” He sighed. He thought about all of the things they have been through, all of the time someone could have died, all of the times someone did die. They had it easy, Scott could heal, Lydia was immune to most things. But from people like Stiles and his dad who put their lives on the line for this stuff didn’t have some special power to bring them back to life. “My dad is gone, and it’s all their fault.” It was then when he got the idea, the idea of revenge. What did he have to lose? He had no one anymore. Things with him and Scott will obviously never be the same, his mom was gone. His dad was gone. Who cared about the rules anymore? “He would still be alive if it weren’t for them.” And it was true. “They’re going to pay. All of them.”

A/N: I know this was pretty dark. I want to give credit to who made/posted the gifs for my inspiration for this story. Part of me would like to make this into a series, but of course it would be rather dark and I would like your guys feedback first! I hope you enjoyed.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi imagine #dylan o'brien #dylan o'brien imagine #teen wolf imagine #scott mccall #lydia martin #malia tate #dylanowhy #Only Human

78 notes · View notes