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astxriism · 4 years

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Blood Moon Rising

Title: The Morning After

Summary: Not a man, nor a beast but something more. When Rowan awakens to find himself thrust into a world hidden from him for years. Finding himself a part of a pack, and to uncover the mystery of his heritage and the two people that seemingly know him better then he knows himself. A prophecy on the verge of fullfilment; will Rowan be able to face this new life and the people in it? Or will his destiny be to much for him to bear?

A/N:I’m not sure what this is or how long it will be but I figured I’d go with it until the plot bunnies leave me alone. Also, I love werewolves or anything supernatural lol. So there will be elements of other supernatural beings in this as I continue but the focus will be the Blood Moon pack (aka Catalyst kids)

As they continued to walk, in silence. Rowan wasn’t sure what he should say or what to ask. His mind going a mile a minute, filled with questions. So rather than voicing his concerns he chose to take in the world. A world, that looked new to his eyes. He had always had 20/20 vision but this was so much more. Colors were bright and crisp. So much so, he could make out the details of the leaves several feet above him. If he focused, Rowan could see rabbits scurry into the underbrush a hundred feet ahead of them. His sense of smell heightened as well. The scent of dew clung to the air. Mixed with the musty odor of damp dirt underfoot. A hint of smoke too; even though there was no fire in sight. Rowan felt stronger, even as they walked at a moderate pace. He knew with a certainty that if he wanted to take off running he could. Muscles prime and ready to send him bounding forward with ease; sprinting for miles on end.

Instinct, it was all on instinct that Rowan comprehended this. That he understood he was more than a man and yet not quite a beast. Not in this form. Dark eyes peeked over at Leo; who was a few inches shorter than himself. But the power, and authority that rolled off him in waves was palpable.

Alpha. The word sounded in the back of his head and a part of him. The part of him that was now tucked away, his wolf knew this. If Leo gave him a command he would do it. Without thought or hesitation. Rowan would listen and obey because regardless of physical stature or prowess. Leo was in charged, Leo was in control. Leaving Rowan unable to do anything except.

Submit.

A frown marred his features. Fingers grazed the side of his neck. An image flashed in front of him. The large brown wolf, bigger than all the others. He had been running next to him, trying to pass him. His wolf wanting to test the limits of this new life it had found, to run and run and never stop.

No, stay with us.

The the command wasn’t given in words but still, his brain could only understand it from that point of view. Yet, his wolf ignored it, only to garner sharp teeth sinking into his neck.

“You bit me.”

It wasn’t a question or even an accusation – though it should have been.

Leo gave a curt nod, “You didn’t listen. It could have been worse.”

“ Worse then you trying to snap my neck with your teeth?”

“ Please, it was a nip at best. Besides, greater wolves have died for a slight like disobeying an alpha. I could have killed you for lashing out at me.” he said

Rowan scoffed then an incredulous look in his eyes. The 'lashing out' as he called it was a knee jerk reaction. Vaguely remembering how his wolf clawed at the other. Swiping at the black wolfs chest. Only to feel the other’s jaw clench down harder. Or, at least that’s what he thought. The previous night was still missing gaps, but his wolf was telling him so.

“ You didn’t say anything.”

“The pack doesn’t communicate with words Rowan,” he explained. Though, given the furrow of the other mans brow; he didn’t think he should have to.

“ I gave you a command, you ignored it. Which I understood, it was your first night. The first time with your wolf, I remember my first shift. It's an exciting time.” he mused. A whistful expression on Leo’s face.

“ Your wolf wants to explore and do and see all it can. To test his limits, but you’re basically a pup. Running off on your own before you’ve had time to get to know him is dangerous. The pack doesn't work if the wolves don't listen to their Alpha but as I said, I understand this is all new for you.”

That was an understatement.

There was so much to learn, one minute he was normal and now... now he was a beast. Part of Rowan knew, that the communication was more internal. Given through grunts and growls. Rowan's human mind putting the what he remembered of it, into words. It was a mind fuck, but he also knew Leo was right He’d understood the command.

“How do you know, that I ignored it?”

“I’m the alpha, it’s a thing. Be happy that I haven’t forced you to submit to me, yet.”

Well, that didn’t sound fucking ominous at all.

Rowan didn’t say anything else after this; not because he didn’t want too but because they were no longer alone. He could hear the voices growing louder the closer they got to his “welcome party”. Deciding that he would leave his questions for his alpha for another time. Rowan watched a young man bounded towards them, a goofy-ass grin on his face as his eyes darted between the pair of them.

“About damn time, Lu thought you two got lost but I told her there was no way.” He grinned extending his hand toward Rowan as he smiled. “Damn, your huge. Names Ben, but everyone calls me Radish. Welcome to the pack ”

Rowan raised a brow taking Ben’s hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Why Radish?”

Ben gave a shrug of his shoulders, “Beats the shit out of me, but the name stuck plus it sounds cool.”

Leo chuckled, “Would you get out of here. Go tell Jude I’ll be along in a bit.”

Radish gave them both a salute before bounding back up and over the small hill. Once they reached the top Rowan’s eyes widen as he took in the crowd. There had to be about thirty-some-odd people spread out. The smell of smoke from earlier; was the different campfires in the small encampment. People were laughing and drinking the carrying on like it was some kind of party. Wasn’t it still pretty early in the morning?

“Come on, might as well meet the rest of the pack.”

A part of Rowan wanted to protest. Instead, he followed after the man unopposed. Would it be like this all the time? He didn't like the idea and yet he did?

The party was in full swing, the crowd parting as they made there way. Rowan greeted by smiling faces of his fellow pack members. A few shaking his hand, while others seemed almost intimidated. Giving short nods in his general direction be for flittering off. something he could only assume due to the fact that he was walking alongside Leo.

A group of women passed him, giggling and whispering to each other. Soft fingers brushed against his abdomen. A pair of grey eyes making contact with his darker irises. She gave him a wink continuing on her way with the others. His eyes followed after her.

"Okay," he began finally looking towards Leo once the woman disappeared into the sea of bodies. " -I'm thinking this might not be so bad." he grinned. Leo for his part chuckled clapping Rowan on the back.

"Leo,"

The voice caught his attention, as he watched her approach. Long, dark, cascading curls bounced behind her as she ran. The billowing skirt she wore dancing with the breeze. Rowan found his breath catching in the back of his throat as he watched her. The scent of sunshine and jasmine clung to her body. She was quite breathtaking, Rowan wanted to know her. To know all he could, it was a short-lived idea though. Watching as Leo scooped her up into his arms; giving her a passionate kiss. Rowan looked away from the couples happy reunion. Refusing to delve deeper into the fact, he didn't know if he was jealous because Leo was kissing the beauty. Or because the beauty was kissing Leo.

When they finally pulled away, Rowan was a little startled as their eyes met. Another group of images appeared, during the phase. The light brown she-wolf who had stayed close to him. Reassuring him. Letting his wolf know it was okay that he was okay.

" I remember you," he murmured surprised and yet not. Her eyes, it was a dead give away.

The woman's bell-like laugh echoed in his brain. Committing the sound to memory because he didn't want to forget it, ever. Excitedly, she took his hand, her touch lingering for a long while. Rowan's eyes shifting towards Leo but he was looking down at... his mate? The pair exchanging a look, as if communicating something. As quick as it happened though, they were both looking at him once more. Which, he liked a lot.

" And I you, Jude Sari. Welcome home Rowan." she beamed

Rowan smiled in returned, thought it faltered a little as she let go of his hand. Now, wrapping both of her arms around Leo's waist.

Yeah, he needed a drink.

"Guess, I'll go mingle like boss man said." unable to take the awkward - whatever it this was between the three of them in that moment. He could feel his wolf stirring inside him; it was unnerving. So with a tight smile, he turned in search of a drink... or two.

"Have fun!" Jude called after him watching Rowan walk away as a few females and males approaching him now. Her body stiffening as they watched the exchange.

" Easy love," Leo said kissing the top of her head as he watched along as well. " We still have to wait for Angelica to test him, to be sure."

Leaning into his chest she shook her head, " It's him, can't you feel it?"

He could, it was the same pull that he had meeting Jude for the first time. That tug had been instant, it was instant with Rowan. Still, he didn't want to leave anything up to chance. They would have to wait and see what Angelica said first. After that, they could go from there.

"We’ll know for sure soon enough."

#[musings]#[werewolf AU]#[BLOOD MOON RISING PT 1]#loooong post jaksdjfha #can yaman #fiction writing

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stereksecretsanta · 5 years

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Merry Christmas, @aqua-ref!

Read on AO3

******

Give Me To A Ramblin' Fae

In the middle of winter, when the moon is heavy in the sky, dripping with milky light and offering, whole and raw, its' power, the Hale Pack gathers around the Nemeton, they dance and they sing, and they shift into their animal skeins to frolic, to chase each other with yipping howls and laughing barks.

Derek has Laura's throat held gently between his maw, and she whines at him to let go, but rumbles approvingly, because he doesn't often win these games of theirs; it is not a matter of low power, more of the target he chooses. The Alpha's heir will, after all, be more difficult to beat than the others. She nips at his ear playfully, urges him along, and they weave through the barren, wind-beaten trees, their paws soaked with snow-melt, muddying the crunchy ivory-fluff that chills the ground beneath them.

There's an undulating, calling, rejoicing howl from their mother that has them leaving a chestnut hare to its' frightened peace in order to return to her, to the Pack.

Through the branches, they can see the sky, all adorned in twilight, hosting, now, a parade of riders, their pandemonium an awe and a terror. Spectral beings ride black mares and stallions, ominous dogs of bared teeth and frothing spit and hideously haunting eyes are careening, entwining and twisting around toned legs and pristine hooves as the steeds gallop forward, heedless. Blackbucks and stags dash, their riders luminescent smoke and vicious intent. Creatures with starlight-encrusted, stained-glass wings, and horns which they blow to hail their passing, fly gracefully around the nocturnal horde, singing or shrieking, cavorting and cackling.

It's a dreadful, terrific sight, that streaks through the night sky, and when the Pack's howl breaks out, full-force, hopeful and evocative, every wolf lifting their song to the ghastly, ghostly peoples as they pass, some of those dragonfly, stardust folk descend, screaming and giggling, a gaggle of raucous temerity, as they gather the wolves in their airborne festivities, and launch them toward the procession.

The whimsical, urgent needs, and maddening power that surround The Hunt quickly seeps into the Pack, makes them drunk and giddy, all of them running with ancient spirits, wildlings, Fair Folk of every type.

Derek's lungs are stung by the rush, his blood electric with the adrenaline when an ephemeral, fey, svelte-lithe boy with bull's horns, skin like cream sprinkled with cinnamon, and mosaic wings that inspire the feeling of fertile soil and fields of growing, healthy, rain-soaked things, comes to him. His oak-silk curls are plaited with holly and mint, a leather-bound necklace hangs heavy around his long, dainty, breakable neck, a crescent moon-charm at the hollow of his throat, surrounded by crystal orbs and autumn leaf-charms, brass acorns and pine-cones, he wears nothing else, unashamed in his nudity.

"Hello," the boy says, bright and sweet, his voice like the delicate silk-dew mist of a cumulus cloud, and Derek feels himself tilt closer without even meaning to. "You're gorgeous. I wonder what you look like in your human form? Honestly, I wonder what everyone here looks like in their human forms. We all have one, you know?"

Honestly, no, he didn't, he was kind of caught up in the romanticism of it all.

All scents are clouded by the musk of wild, old magick, stained by an odd, dense-soil ecstasy, and a part of him, vivid and, for one, fanatic moment, overwhelming, wants to eviscerate the aroma The Wild Hunt carries, if only so he can learn what this boy might smell like.

"Everyone who sees us thinks we're malevolent or scary, but, honestly, dude, we're just escorting the spirits Grandmother Death didn't have the time or patience to get to to their respective homes. We've all still got day jobs—I mean, you have a day job, pretty wolfling that you are, don't you?"

Numbly, helplessly, and a little more sober, now, Derek nods.

The boy grins at him, crooked and terribly endearing, fire-light eyes sparkling in the dim, mist-fog, shadowed light.

"See?" He says, gesturing, "Even Odin's got one, Odin, the God of knowledge, inspiration, creative and intellectual pursuits, the dead, fucking road rage—that guy, the head honcho, the one at the head of this whole operation. Like, in this economy, where barely anyone has the Sight anymore, and the number of people left who believe are too few and far between, what else are we supposed to do? It's not like causing havoc and stealing things is going to garner us any good-will, man, so here we are, doing the good work, and then tomorrow we'll go home and agonize over our bills just like everybody else." The faerie heaves a sigh, before blinking and seeming to realize himself, his cheeks burn a vivid, enchanting crimson when a harassing, incredulous, exasperated wail sounds from above.

"Oops," he breathes, a nervous giggle edging in, "I am so not supposed to do that, and I've just been rambling at you, and—" the wail comes again, more pressing this time. The boy groans, eyelashes fluttering down in mortification. "Sorry, I'll see you later, maybe?" Fragile, paper-thin wings flutter, and bone-nimble fingers tangle in the fur at Derek's flank to help the faerie wade close enough to press a candied, chaste kiss to his wolven cheek.

He says, "I'm Stiles, by the way," and grins like he isn't aware of how dangerously beautiful that expression is, before he zooms away in a sweeping, upward glide.

Derek gets a small glimpse of another fae, donned in a flowing, powder-blue toga-dress, with moth-like wings and magma curls flowing down to her waist, admonishing Stiles exhaustively, before their speed, much more than the wolves and the steeds and the dogs, has them blurring out of sight, catching up to a cluster of swarming fae up ahead, too far to spy on any longer.

Derek tries to get his thundering heart to calm and wonders why he ever thought love at first sight was a superstitious, optimistic myth, if not an outright lie.

Days later, after all the Dead have been put to their proper rest, a few offerings of milk and cookies meant for 'Santa' were traded for faerie favors, and quite a few more rogue, feral creatures were stolen and re-sewn into ravens or crows or hunting dogs, of the ilk to sleep the whole year away, and only wake when The Wild Hunt, again, takes place—Stiles is trying, valiantly, to focus.

His mind keeps tracing back to eyes like stars winking to tenacious life, to obsidian fur and sinewy muscle, a warbling wolf-song that lilted like a lullaby, all hymn-hope, resounding howl, to the way sharp, ink-fluffy ears kept flickering to him, listening and curious and three shades shy of entranced. He doesn't know why he's so caught up on it, this is the sixth year he's been old enough to participate in The Hunt, and they have wolves with them every time, thousands of Packs from all of the world join them, so why was he so attracted, distracted, by this one?

What was so special about him?

Other than the, you know, sand-escaping-his-fingers, barely tangible, general everything.

Stiles sighs despondently, and Lydia, who's probably been talking about Important College Things, hits him upside the head promptly.

"A—ow!" Stiles rubs the back of his head, glaring balefully at her. Her hand retreats to flick her hair over her shoulder in one fluid, deflecting motion, as if to dissuade anyone who might've noticed her uncouth action from registering it as more than a figment of their imagination, nothing to see here, folks!

He loves her, he does, but some days he wants to strangle her.

Just a little.

"You were sighing again," she points out, lashes grazing her cheeks as she looks down at her book, flips the page flippantly, like studies on how mathematical algorithms affect neurology bore her. "It's starting to get annoying, Stiles."

"Shut up. It's not like I can even do anything about it," he laments, complaining even though he knows it'll only be a study in disappointment and masochism, at this point. "Who is he? where does he live? work? For all I know, I'm infatuated with some Turkish Lord who I won't even have the slightest chance of seeing again until next year."

Lydia snaps her book shut with a sound that manages to be both refined and abrupt enough to startle. "What on earth were you doing galavanting with the lower-tiers, anyway? We aren't supposed to talk to them, Stiles—"

"But, he was—"

"If he had been a ghost instead of a solid, you could've been lost to the spirit-tide, and you know The Hunt doesn't discern when it comes to a close—you could be on the other side of the Veil by now, instead of sitting here, fawning!"

She's heaving by the end of her rant, cheeks flushed, sea-glass eyes glittering angrily, and Stiles knows her fury is borne from worry, from a very real fear. He remembers his mother, how she was all love and sweet-tempered fire, how she gave coins to the more corporeal spirits, gleefully hugged and spun yarns and danced with all the riders, always careful of the spirit-tide, of getting caught in its' undertow, until she got sick, and couldn't remember to be.

Neither Stiles nor Lydia had been old enough to go, yet, and Stiles' dad was human. Lydia's grandmother, they think, tried to stop her, to save her, but ended up just as lost and mourned as she.

He feels guilt curdle in his chest and exhales heavily. "I'm sorry, Lyds, I am. I don't know why I did that, I'll—next year, I'll stay in the upper-tiers, like I'm supposed to," he inclines his head solemnly, reaches across the library table to hold both her hands in his, "I promise."

She squeezes his fingers, sniffs, her voice evaporated misty at the edges, "You damn well better, you idiot."

He offers her a sincere, sorrow-tinged smile, and tries to put the entire thing out of his mind.

It's New Year's Eve, and Stiles is exhausted, between studies and random research stints and trying to keep the Kelpies three doors down from killing and/or getting killed by the vampires that live in the apartment downstairs, he thinks he has every right to be. Still, though, Lydia put at least a quarter of her heart and soul into organizing this party, and if he hadn't come, he's sure she would've had him flayed.

So, here he is, sleep-deprived, delirious, eying the bar and wondering if getting drunk when all he's been living off of for the past three days is coffee, is at all a good idea. It isn't, it really fucking isn't, but...

But he's got nothing else to do, and tomorrow it'll be a new year, right? Might as well live a little.

Derek smiles briskly at the lady with a bird's nest of raven-black hair as he hands her her drink, and purposefully ignores the blonde at the end of the bar who's been whistling and snapping at him imperiously for the past fifteen minutes.

He's half tempted to text Cora and ask her what the hell she was thinking, pulling him behind the counter to fill in for her so she could go after the strawberry-blonde party hostess with a number and a cheap pickup line caught in her too-sharp teeth, because, yeah, he's got enough experience not to flounder (he'd found himself hiding from the rain in a drag bar while he was still in high school, and they let him hang out despite his age because he was a good enough cook that as long as he didn't touch the alcohol, they didn't care, and when you're in that sort of close-knit, street-smart gritty, overprotective Pack-like environment, it's impossible not to learn the tricks of the trade), but his customer service has always been shit.

With someone like Peter as an Uncle, he's capable of plastering on a smile and flirting a pretty lie with the best of them, he just doesn't fucking liketo. In fact, it's something he actively avoids unless lives are in danger.

Then a voice, one he remembers, all whispered silk-cotton dream-thread collecting raindrops in its' seams, starts murmuring a sugary melody in his periphery, and his eyes snap to its' source with a breathless, near frantic urgency.

And there he is.

Like Fate.

Like a fucking miracle.

He looks different, horns and wings gone, still with the wind-swept, earthy curls, though their holly-mint braids are nowhere to be found; dressed in a long-sleeved, charcoal gray shirt that cling to his lithe, agile-built muscles, an unzipped crimson hoodie layered over it, skin-tight jeans and ridiculous, neon-orange vans, but there's that leather-bound charm necklace, heavy around the length of his pretty throat, with a crescent-moon hanging just at the hollow, and it's him.

The rambling faerie he met on The Wild Hunt, absently humming a tune as he messes with his phone, patiently waiting for a bartender to notice him, at a college party on New Year's Eve.

The surreality of this is... not lost on him.

"Hello," Derek greets, sliding into the boy's- Stiles', if he remembers right- space.

"Oh, uh," he looks up from, and pockets, his phone, a little bashful, "I always thought you had to make eye contact to get, like, served, or whatever, but, um, hi?"

Derek tries to bite back a smile.

Fails.

"Hi," he repeats, and the boy blinks at him dumbly for a solid five seconds before just breathing:

"Wow. You're gorgeous."

And Derek can't help it, he barks out a laugh. "You said that last time."

"I did? Wait, I did? When?! I've met you?" he sounds outraged, on his own behalf, scandalized, even. "No," he denies, "no way, I would've remembered meeting someone like you and then doing something as stupid as calling you gorgeous to your face without any sort of filter—and, wow, smooth sailing, me. I am so sorry about that, by the way, color me extremely embarrassed, but. Yeah, no. No way in hell I've committed the same social faux-pas twice with the same person, I refuse to believe it."

Derek smirks, even as something warm and giddy and compelled sets up camp in his heart, with a kind of tenacity that says it'll be staying a long while.

"Well, I wasn't exactly a person at the time," he points out, "but I appreciated the compliment both times, Stiles, so you... really shouldn't worry about it."

"I—you—" Stiles sputters, freezes, mouth agape and molten-caramel doe-eyes very, very wide, before he seems to reboot. "You are kidding me," he says, feelingly, before pitching forward over the counter to grab Derek's face with his hands, searching his eyes intently.

Derek tries to be anything other than amused and endeared.

Fails, again.

"Wolfling," Stiles accuses, awed. "I didn't think I was ever going to see you again."

"Rambling fae," Derek muses, hushed, leaning further into Stiles' space even as he pushes the boy down into a bar-stool, because while he might not take offense, the other on-duty bartender, or, even, the party hostess, might. "Neither did I."

Stiles sucks in a very deep breath, and then spills out any number of tangential, spiraling questions, what's your name? Where do you live? Are you a bartender? can I have your number? I'd really like your number. Are you—

Derek crushes the rest in a kiss that tastes like sunlight and cherry-tart and ozone, Stiles melts into it with a helpless, keening whine, his spine curving up, shoulders opening, head tilting, whole body blooming like a flower, begging to be plucked, held, kept, known.

He answers what his fleeting thoughts will let him, mutters the words into Stiles' warm, slick-wet, receptive mouth, his name, that his Pack lives in town, that he isn't, but his sister is, and he's covering for her. With a drawn-out sigh, he does force himself to pull away, eventually.

Probably not soon enough, honestly.

"Take me out," Stiles says immediately, dazed, lips kiss-bruised enchanting, and then flushes that same, deep, candied, lascivious red as before. "Or. I mean. I want to date you. Can we go on a date? Not right now, obviously, but—"

"Yes," Derek grins, overwhelmed, blood champagne-effervescent, "yeah, I'd really like that."

Stiles exhales heavily, laughs, a little incredulously, shakes his head at himself, and then smiles, soft and marshmallow-fluffy up at him, "Awesome."

Derek begins to think that, maybe, he needs to give Cora a fruit-basket. Or, possibly, Odin, and that's... well.

That may well be the cherry on top of an incredibly strange, unusual, wonderful meeting.

#aqua-ref #stereksanta18 #*fic18 #*gifts18

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gwen-of-myth · 6 years

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These Hands Stained Red

My Secret Santa fic for @merwin-me! The second chapter is going up soon as well! Read it on AO3 here! (for some reason Tumblr won’t let me insert a Read More)

"Ready," Stiles asks Peter, bat in lap as he switches gears. Peter nods, teeth gleaming in the pale moonlight. "Ready."

Stiles calls what they're doing Operation Kick Some Ass, and while crude, the name encompasses their overall goal surprisingly well. Scott never allows them the freedom to deal with supernatural threats, regardless of how dangerous it actually is to allow them all to live. So, each time after Scott lets enemies go, Peter and Stiles go on an impromptu 'road trip' to 'check up' on them. "Scott knew that witch was lying when she said she wouldn't kill again, he had to, but he just lets her go," Stiles growls angrily, foot slamming down on the gas. "All of them did. It's stupid." "And dangerous," Peter adds, more than pleased with Stiles.

"Good thing we're here, right?" "Indeed." Peter is, for once, relieved that he never turned Stiles, because if he had Stiles would know that every time they take one of these trips, Peter falls a little harder--it's all in his scent. It's difficult not to, when they are trading witty remarks and sarcastic smiles so often. After the first couple trips, Peter began to make it a point to grab him curly fries before every Pack meeting. After a few more, he began dropping off Stiles's favorite snacks at the Stilinski house every week. A month later, and Peter is struck by the realization that he is providing for Stiles. Fuck, Peter loves him.

"Uh, Peter, we're here. Get your big boy ass-kicking pants on, and let's start the show." He rolls his eyes and opens the jeep door.

"Please," Peter snorts. "I refuse to be told that by a teenager wearing neon orange tights." Stiles laughs, a loud, cheerful chuckle, making Peter go light headed for a moment. "Touché."

Afterwards, it has become a tradition for Peter to treat Stiles to a night of fun ("After all," Peter always reasoned, "it wouldn't do if I didn't. Tonight it had been decided to be arcade night, and Stiles promises to show him no mercy on Mariokart (what Stiles does not know is that Peter is very experienced at that exact game, as he enjoyed beating his siblings at it countless times when he was younger). "Dude, look! Air hockey! C'mon, c'mon, I haven't played air hockey in forever because Scott's always doing mushy stuff with Allison," Stiles pesters, pulling on the sleeve of Peter's v-neck with a mischievous grin. Peter lets himself be dragged further into the arcade, handing over tokens with a fond look as Stiles's repeats "Gimme, gimme!". Peter is surprised to find that despite his super fast reflexes and inhuman speed, he loses every time. Until he smells the waves of magic coming off of him. "Cheater," Peter accuses, more amused than anything. "I have no idea what you're talking about. You're just being a sore loser and not accepting my skills for what they are, old man!" Peter bares his teeth and growls playfully, and is filled with contentment when Stiles does the same back. This is the same Stiles that lit Peter on fire with a Molotov cocktail, Peter thinks, as he watches him chug a Mountain Dew. Sweaty, grinning, and so pretty that Peter wants to lean in and lick the salt off his neck. Peter suddenly finds himself in terrible need of adjustment. "Hey, Peter," Stiles suddenly says, breaking him out of his lecherous mindset. "it's almost summer, and dad's told me that if I wanted to spend it with someone, I could, 'cause I'm eighteen and all. I was thinking..." He looks at Peter with a worried smile, and Peter knows he's expecting him to reject him. Hell, he probably should, because there's no way he'll be able to resist the temptation of kissing Stiles a whole summer. "You want to spend it with me?" He hates how unsure he sounds, and the reasoning behind it. But Stiles just nods quickly, sheepishly, like the words embarrass him. "Scott and I aren't that close anymore, and I don't think I'd want to be with him anyways. But, uh, if you don't want to--" "I do," Peter interrupts. How could he not want him? How can he say no to Stiles when he's like this? Peter finds himself unable to answer either of those questions, though he desperately wants to. It would be better for Stiles to never learn that Peter feels this way about him. "Trust me, I most certainly do." Stiles flushes. "Great. I guess I'll text you later, then?" Peter nods distractedly.

Want to come over, Stiles texts him a couple days later.

Would that be wise?

Nah. but Buffy is on Netflix and you always bring the good popcorn to pack meetings

Peter scoffs. It's not my fault Derek never stocks up on proper movie snacks

Just come over. Please?

As if Peter could say no to such a request.

That's how Peter finds himself eating horribly unhealthy popcorn with Stiles at two in the morning. "You have butter on your chin, you heathen." Stiles wipes at his face, missing it entirely. "Did I get it?" "Here, just let me," Peter mutters, leaning forwards and capturing his chin. Peter licks his thumb and wipes the sticky substance away. "Got it." He starts to lean back, then falters. Stiles's doe eyes are big, and capture Peter in the most willing way. This close, Peter can see the individual hues in his eyes, and see that they are not only brown, but also gold and shimmer when the light hits them. Peter wants to drown in them, and he has to have fallen hard because that is the sappiest thing he's ever thought. "I want to kiss you right now," Peter says, and almost immediately regrets the words. He likes Lydia. There's no way. Peter can't-- "I want you to too," Stiles whispers. When their lips meet, Stiles sinks into it with a sigh, closing his eyes and curling a hand around Peter's shoulder, almost like he's trying to ground himself. Peter has to stop himself from shifting, the taste of Stiles testing his control like nothing before. He tastes like sugar and blood, and like everything Peter's ever wanted but never had the chance to have. He doesn't deserve this, he knows he doesn't, but that doesn't matter when Stiles's tongue (the same one Peter follows wetting his lips every single day) enters Peter's mouth. When they part, they're gasping. Peter is a little dazed, especially when he sees Stiles's eyes half-lidded like they are. "About damn time," Stiles growls, pushing Peter against the couch so he can capture his lips into another kiss, this one forceful and desperate. There are so many things Peter wants to say to him, but for now he just laughs into Stiles's mouth and brings his hands up to hold his cheeks. They have time.

#Steter #fanfic #steter secret santa

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issyaboimoony · 7 years

Text

This was for Chiccolo Week and I completely forgot about it.

For the College AU day

@chiccolofans

“Piccolo, how long have we been friends for?”

Piccolo squinted up at her through the early morning fog that clung to his jacket and antennae with surprising viscosity (third bullet point of the fifth header in his current study guide). He was crouched down with his back pressed against the brick, heels digging into his ass as he ignored the dew soaking through his grubby boots. The hole in the toe had become quite a pain with all of his current eight am classes. Mercifully, the semester was drawing to a close.

“Define friends,” he said, voice like rough sandpaper so early in the morning. “Also, define the exact moment when you considered us to actually become friends.”

The woman in front of him glowered - and really, people didn’t understand how impressive it could be. Gyumao Chi Chi was a rather formidable woman. She was tiny, with round brown eyes that could cut through anyone’s resolve without any effort. Her hips were wide and, Piccolo’s hypothesis was, that this was her body trying to accommodate how often her hands went there. A natural table, formed by constant pressure. A tectonic plate shifting (study guide B, year one, fifth chapter).

“Don’t be an ass.” Chi Chi said this, knowing full and well that it was all Piccolo was really capable of. It was his one good point, if they were both being honest, which they both usually were. Oftentimes to the detriment of those around them.

“I think it, therefore I am,” Piccolo grumbled (April 10th, 2012, Facebook post from Uncle Kami).

“You think of ass?” Chi Chi asked archly, and even though her square cut bangs hid her eyebrows, the rest of her face was so expressive that Piccolo could see an astral projection of them. They would climb high into the risers, just almost reaching wherever her hairline actually began. Maybe one day they would get caught. Not that Piccolo would ever know.

There were many things Piccolo didn’t know. Like how to not make a fool of himself. He waved a hand in Chi Chi’s direction, and tapped a sharp nail against his chin.

“I misspoke,” he complained. That was something else, Piccolo supposed, that he was good at. It was something Chi Chi was good at, too. She could complain at the sidewalk for having too many cracks, and he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Either way.” There - the irritated lilt in her voice. And by lilt, what Piccolo really meant was a rough, metaphysical punch to the conversation for not turning its tide in her favor. “Listen to me. Are you my friend, or aren’t you?”

Piccolo held his hand flat, palm towards the ground, and wiggled it. So-so.

Chi Chi’s face was like an abstract painting - if the artist was constantly having seizures. She managed to pack as many different colors on her cheekbones, each a separate canvas caught in the fray.

“I need your help.” The words sounded like they hurt. They probably did.

Piccolo frowned. “What?”

“I need you…” Chi Chi sucked in a deep breath, and her lips puckered over her words. She remained for a solid moment, just like that, as if reveling in her hatred of what came next. “I need you to go on a date with me.”

Piccolo frowned. “What?”

“Stop - stop that! Don’t make that face!” Chi Chi twisted her lips up, and - ah - nature’s shelf received some use as her fists pushed against her fat hips. “It’s pretty simple! I need you to go on a date with me.”

A date (a social or romantic appointment or engagement, Webster’s online dictionary, defintion 2). Piccolo couldn’t believe the words he’d just heard her say. They seemed incomprehensible in the face of everything that had ever happened to him.

“Why do you need a… date?” He liked to think he didn’t stutter over his words. He liked to think a lot of things.

Chi Chi huffed. “Well, I’ve had a crush on you for the past two years.” The way Chi Chi said things was astounding. She said them easily, like words flew to her mouth, and she punched them out. She was amazing that way. Everything she did - she did it with force. Everything Piccolo did, he did with bitterness.

“Really?”

“Truly. Ever since you shit yourself in our Freshmen Comp class.”

Piccolo felt his cheeks heat up at that, and he threw Chi Chi a rather desperate look. He hadn’t shit himself. The act of shitting oneself required actual defecation. What Piccolo had done was accidentally taken a swig of a classmate’s drink, which had just so happened to be a dairy product. His species couldn’t handle milk, and when his asshole decided to greet everyone in class with a ‘how-do-you-do’, Chi Chi was the only one who hadn’t laughed. She’d stood up, sat next to him, and proceeded to dig Lactaid out of her purse and shove it in his direction. She’d simply said, ‘I’m always prepared’, and she had never brought it up as to why she’d had medicine for a problem she didn’t have.

He later learned that Chi Chi was just like that, and always carried a plethora of medicine in her purse, ‘just in case’.

Piccolo propped his chin up by his hand, and glowered up at her.

“You know that’s not what happened,” he said.

Chi Chi shrugged. “It’s what I tell people.”

Because of course she did. “The hell are you talking about me to other people for?”

“Usually they want to know how long we’ve been together.” Chi Chi crouched down beside him, and her brown eyes practically bore into his soul. “You know, you haven’t answered me. I’m a bit concerned. You know it’s one of my life goals to get married. I need to get a move on.”

She said all this very seriously, her gaze like fire.

“I know.”

“So?”

Piccolo tilted his head, and stared at her from his peripheral. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Unless you know another meaning for the word ‘yes’, then I feel like this should be self-explanatory.”

Chi Chi punched him in his arm, and he smiled. “You suck. But I guess now you’re my boyfriend who sucks.” She scraped her knuckles along the ground, finger tips tracing across blades of grass. “I do gotta ask though, what’s your minimum amount of dating time before we talk proposals?”

“Twenty years.”

Chi Chi rolled her eyes. “Please. Common law has to kick in at some point.”

“Then you should be satisfied.”

Piccolo smirked at her frustration, but it melted into a real smile as she reached over, and linked her pinky finger with his. He could see himself getting used to this.

#chiccolo week 2017 #kinda #chiccolo #chi chi x piccolo #chichi x piccolo #im a dumb and can't upload things properly #this is what happens when we pre-write children

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