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chenziee · 1 year

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Chains meant to be broken

@lawluevents - Day 1: Soulmates/Loyalty @onepiece-bingo: Chains

Alternate summary: that one broken roof in Dressosa can fit so many fics...

I couldn't have possibly made this year's LawLu week fit into the It's the little things verse (repeated prompts and also too many canon scenes already covered there xD) so I had to ask myself, "How do I make this harder?" And then remembered my OP bingo card so here we are with day 1/square 1!

[ Read on AO3 | series ]

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To have a soulmate is a blessing, Law’s mother used to say. She always did so with a soft, knowing expression on her face while stroking Law’s arm, tracing his soulmark with gentle fingers.

Law used to believe her… but that romantic naivety soon burned away—leaving behind nothing but the growing white spots on his skin and a clock ticking, counting down the seconds of his remaining lifespan.

He didn’t believe anything after Flevance. He didn’t believe anything except destruction and he most certainly didn’t believe in some random person he had never met swooping in and making everything right just by the virtue of being his soulmate. That was something that happened only in fairy tales—stories of princes appearing before damsels in distress to save them, to give them a better life, fixing whatever fucked up mess there was in a matter of minutes with little effort. Law always thought it was stupid, even as a child; life never worked that way after all. No matter what kind of magic you used, shit would always happen. And in his life…

Shit happened and then kept happening.

There was no magic.

There was no soulmate.

There was nothing left.

Nothing but Doflamingo and the hope to make Cora-san’s ambition come true.

By the age of 15, Law knew that even if he ever met his soulmate, it wouldn’t matter to him in the least. After all, what was a soulmate if not a chain meant to keep you from doing what you needed to do, to hold you in place and restrict your freedom.

Some days, Law had to laugh at the metaphor.

How ironic for his own soulmark to be a chain that covered his entire left arm, running from his wrist all the way to his shoulder like a snake trying to break him. Break him, just like the chain itself was broken—just like everything else in Law’s life.

That was how it was, and how it was supposed to be.

After all, everything Law did in his life after Minion Island was for one reason and one goal and he didn’t care how many things he broke along the way.

—————

Law was 26 years old and barely alive when he first realised what a broken chain stood for.

He had never bothered to think about it until that point; it didn’t matter to him—he thought it didn’t matter to him.

But then he found himself sitting on the roof of a half-broken house in what used to be the bustling heart of Dressrosa. His entire right arm was throbbing with white hot pain from where it had been severed and then sewn back on, the injury still fresh and bleeding and painful, but Law barely noticed it over the sounds of destruction around him—sounds of Doflamingo turning the entire town into strings, Straw Hat throwing his own, just as damaging punches right back at him, people screaming…

But all Law heard from it all, all he felt… was the chain around his heart creaking, its metallic links straining against each other as if Straw Hat himself had grabbed it and pulled, trying to rip the thing apart with bare hands.

And then…

Straw Hat tore down the Birdcage and with it, the chain finally broke as well.

And in that moment, Law understood.

“How stupid,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure if he meant the metaphorical chain Doflamingo had on his heart, the soulmark on his arm—how long has it been since he had called the thing that?—or if he meant himself.

He supposed it didn’t matter right then.

“Room.” It took a great deal of willpower to force his ability to work but he refused to give up. He gritted his teeth, making the Room grow as big as he could make it. “Shambles.”

A split second later, Straw Hat appeared on the roof next to Law. He looked terrible, covered in dirt and sweat and so much blood, but there was a smile on his lips as he snored softly, already dead to the world.

Law huffed to himself; how careless of him to fall asleep the second he had defeated Doflamingo. Was he so certain his crew had taken care of every single person who would still be out to kill him? Did he think someone would catch him? Or did he honestly think would be okay just crashing to the ground, even being a rubber man, and then just staying there like that?

With a sigh, Law closed his eyes. He could feel the exhaustion pulling him under too… But he at least refused to sleep until he was sure it was safe.

“Torao?”

Law’s eyes snapped open as he startled at the weak call of his name. He blinked, turning to look at Straw Hat to meet his half-lidded eyes and lazy grin that only widened the longer Law looked at him.

“I knew you’d catch me. Thanks,” Straw Hat said in a voice so quiet it was barely audible.

“Don’t be stupid. You think I’m that loyal to you after meeting again yesterday?” Law retorted. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered to defend himself when all the evidence was so painfully obviously against him.

Straw Hat snickered at his words but didn’t argue. He only gazed up at Law, something so incredibly soft in his eyes that it almost hurt and Law wasn’t sure if he was brave enough to face it.

But… considering who he was dealing with…

Law wasn’t sure if he would even have a fucking choice.

He barely knew Straw Hat but he already knew all too well how goddamned stubborn this man was.

“Our soulmarks finally make sense together, don’t they?”

Stubborn, perceptive, and completely fucking shameless.

Of course he had noticed. Of course he had figured it out way before Law did. And of fucking course he just had to toss it in Law’s face without any regard for the situation or their surroundings.

“Shut up, Straw Hat-ya. Go to sleep,” Law growled instead of acknowledging what Straw Hat had said.

Before Straw Hat could so much as giggle at Law’s admittedly pointless defiance, a shout came from somewhere close to them.

“LUCY!!”

Law jumped, having almost forgotten about the two women who were on the roof with them. Clicking his tongue, Law turned away, not about to watch as the young kid in skimpy armour sobbed over Straw Hat, thanking him over and over and over again.

How annoying.

Did she have to move Straw Hat just put his head in her lap in the first place? He was injured for fuck’s sake. Just let him rest and have a doctor look him over and give him treatment…

Although, well… Law didn’t have any room to talk. He himself hadn’t done much in that department and he was the doctor here. But he was just so tired. It was okay to sleep now, right? It didn’t seem like anyone was coming after them anymore; if they were, he probably would have noticed their presence by now. It was fine. Probably.

Hopefully.

And if not, well—then they were fucked because Law couldn’t fight the pull any longer, exhaustion and blood loss working hand in hand to drag him under.

Law didn’t have the strength to fight it anymore—not the sleep and not the way the broken chain on his arm burned from having found its missing link. The link that broke it and set Law free.

Law was going to sleep now and then…

Then they could see where the ocean took them.

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ccyans · 5 years

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Lionheart Chapter 2

Rocinante wakes up in slowly, in increments. And then all together at once.

Something bright is beyond the film of his eyelids. A hazy, cotton-cloistered feeling's set up shop inside of his skull. Everything is groggy and wavering at the edges even in the not-quite conscious grey-black, thoughts floating by and dissipating like pale mist. It's... hard to think. He doesn't want to think. He has to, though. Because he'd been in the middle something important. The most important --

Law.

Rocinante's eyes snap open. The light is hideous.

He thinks he squawks but all that comes out is a wheezing noise, eyes squeezing back shut on reflex. It takes some frantic blinking before the rest of the world sharpens into focus. A blue tiled ceiling. IV lines criss-crossing over his head. White, clinical light. The beeping sound of medical equipment crashes down half a second after, and at its heels the memory of Minion: rattling wind and Rocinante gritting his teeth against the gunshots. Doffy's thunderous face.

Law.

And this is evidently not Minion island.

Someone must have found him. Not his brother. For numerous reasons, but also: Doffy's med bay is never this scrupulous. The marines? Best case scenario, but it doesn't really matter at this point. Whoever found him would have found his kid too. It's the train end of that thought that sends Rocinante moving, sitting up, IV lines straining with the motion, hands coming up to touch the cool plastic taped to his face. He's halfway in ripping off the oxygen mask when something stirs at his side.

He looks down.

A bundle that can only be described as eighty percent battered blanket and twenty percent fluffy, fluffy hat mumbles something blearily incomprehensible under its breath, burrowing closer. Rocinante's hat is clenched tightly between its fingers.

The oxygen mask clatters onto the gurney. The world melts, reorientates. It's like someone just sucker punched the wind out of Rocinante's gut, the relief is so tremendous. "Shit kid," he says, feeling everything spun taunt in him relax three fractions. His hand reaches out, automatically, to smooth down the hat from where it'd gotten skewed sideways, brushing dark bangs aside from the pale thin face. His fingers rest against the crown of the boy's head.

He pauses.

"Shit, kid." And this time it's not in relief at all but as a swear. He knocks the hat aside to put his full hand on Law's forehead, feeling it burn underneath his palm, turns Law's face up carefully but with urgent quickness, noting with alarm the flushed cheeks, the flickering movement behind Law's paper-thin eyelids.

Without thought, Rocinante's hand goes to his pocket. Someone's cut off his shirt in lieu of gauze and bandages and he has no idea where his coat is and doesn't really care, but he if he remembers correctly -- yes, there. The ope-ope fruit is fished out of his jeans, clutched by the green stem, and there's half a bite taken out of it just as there should be.

Okay. Okay. This is fine.

Rocinante's jaw clenches.

This is really not fine. But it's -- doable.

The fever, in itself, is nothing new. It'd settled in sometime during the fifth month as the kid's immune system degraded and never really went away, lent itself to sleepless nights and endless coughing and the occasional bouts of delirium that had Rocinante worrying ceaselessly. In the end though, it's a symptom, not a cause. Rocinante had -- well, maybe he'd hoped, but he'd not actually thought that eating the Ope-ope would make it go away just like that. The thing's a miracle surgery fruit, not a miracle healing fruit.

Law can use it, though. Get rid of the Amber Lead himself. There is no way he's going to go down to a symptom of a fever. There is no way Rocinante's going to let him go down to a symptom of a fever, especially when the cure is literally at hand.

He takes Law's shoulders and gently, fiercely, shakes.

"Kid. Kid. Law. Come on, come on, just for a little bit okay? Wake up."

The boy mumbles something again, incomprehensible. Rocinante shakes a little harder, and then, with sharp relief, watches one golden eye slit open with bleary slowness.

"Cora... san?" Law murmurs.

"Oh thank God." Tension spills like water from marginlines. Rocinante's shoulders drop, and his grip on Law eases.

Just in time for one small pale fist to smack him straight in the nose.

Rocinante squawks, recoils, and just barely doesn't overbalance onto the floor. "Kid!"

"You shithead!" shouts Law, and smacks him again. "You stupid, stupid, stupid shithead of an aaaargh! " Rocinante clutches at his poor nose. The kid does not relent in the slightest. "I cannot believe you. I actually cannot believe you." His entire expression is scrunched in fury, eyes blazing, chest heaving and tiny fist still clenched and raised like a battering ram. "What kind of bullshit were you thinking, you--"

He doesn't get to finish.

Rocinante snatches at that tiny hand, crusted with what looks distressingly like dried blood, in full-body alarm. "Shit. Kid you're not injured right? The bullets didn't --"

"Arrrrrgh !" Screams Law, and smacks him again.

Rocinante wheezes. His clavicle's already tender, mainly, and oh, Blues, was that a creak? "I'm asking a serious question!" he protests.

"No, you're asking a stupid question. The blood's not mine. It's yours! All the blood is yours!" One outraged hand thumps against the gurney table. This is when Rocinante realizes the sheet he's been laid out on looks like something from a charnel house.

He blinks at it dumbly.

"Oh. That's good."

The kid makes strangled wheezing noises.

"No it's not you dumbass clown. Blood is supposed to be inside the human body. " His hands flex, claw-like. "You can't survive otherwise! You don't survive otherwise. And --" The glare slits, narrows, in what Rocinante recognizes as Law having a Sudden Realization. The voice narrows too, dangerously. "Cora-san, Where the is your oxygen mask ?"

"Er," says Rocinante, right before the kid collapses.

Shit.

He barely manages to slump, before Rocinante catches him. One hand supporting the kid's chest, another cradling his head. He weighs absolutely nothing. The ribs, fragile and prominent even through the shirt and blanket, tremble under Rocinante's hand.

In the silence of the room, the shallow rasp of the kid's breathing is too loud. His face, under the white-wash of the overhead lights, is yellowed beneath the flush of exertion. Panic sinks like seastone down Rocincnate's throat even as the kid's eyes flutter, briefly. He must have worn himself out with the shouting. He shouldn't have been shouting in the first place. And then he attempts to sit back up again, which Rocinante counters in expedience by scooping him up because, kid, Law, no, one arm needed only, the other closing a cool palm over Law's forehead to check his temperature, the fever in it.

Law's lips purse. "No. Save your breath." Rocinante closes his hand over the kid's mouth to emphasize the point and -- gets bitten. Of course. The kid's expression is mutinous. His glare is broken only by how rapidly he's blinking. How absolutely pale his face has gone. The rattle of his small chest underneath Rocinante's hand, the too-quick thrum of his heart.

He's been wasting time.

Law needs a doctor, immediately.

The thought swims in and then spins a circle. Because Law has been needing a doctor for a long, long time. It's just that the doctors are half the problem, two thirds of the problem, the entire problem. The thought spins, and it lands on the fact that Rocinante is sitting on a gurney with IV lines taped to the inside of his forearms. There's a doctor here.

And what kind of shitty fucking doctor doesn't treat the sick and feverish thirteen year old boy before the grown man. What kind of doctor.

By now the enroaching fury is grim and familiar and so very tired. It feels like something is closing up in Rocinante's throat, hot and aching, exhausted and furious, before Law shivers, makes a wet hacking noise, and worry steals his attention away in an override.

Shitty doctors or not, Law does need some kind of help. Rocinante swings his legs over the edge of the gurney table, before realizing his IV lines need to go. He rips them out and away, the needles and tape, tangling the transparent cords. Then he scoops the kid up again. The kid, hacking wet and sharp, into the bandages at Rocinante's collarbone, hands curled into the fabric of Rocinante's hat.

Rocinante rubs soothing circles into his back. "You're gonna be okay," he says, quietly, quietly. "You hear me? You're gonna be just fine Law."

And he is. He will be.

Because the doctors don't matter at this point in time. Not them, and not any of the opinions from the rest of the world. Law has the Ope-Ope no mi now. Law can save himself. Law will be free of this: the doctors and the jeers and the shackles of the Amber Lead, very very soon.

And he'll get to grow up, to grow old. He's the brightest kid Rocinante has ever met. He's almost there; his future so close Rocinante can almost touch it, a watercolour superimposed onto the snow.

So Rocinante doesn't really need a doctor. Good riddance, at this point. The Amber Lead, Law can manage by himself. All Rocinante needs is a little bit of help. A saline drip, fever medicine, and this place has all that. Just half a beri of kindness. And by the Blues, if whoever running this place can't find it in themselves to give the kid that small and simplest thing, Rocinante will shake it out of them.

Law's eyes flutter closed. The coughing, still incessant.

Rocinante tucks him close, and then for the first time since awakening takes in the rest of the room.

Medicine bottles and complicated machinery, the floor an absolute mess. Instruments bloodied and scattered. Rocinante's coat crumpled in a bloody corner. And -- is that a sword? The door comes into view half a second later though; the sword is forgotten. Rocinante's feet hit the floor. The gurney table screeches backwards. He doesn't trip and fall by virtue of grabbing the IV stand and clutching, hand white-knuckled, the boy held right in the crook of his elbow.

It takes five long strides before he's at the door, past all the equipment and bottle-lined shelves. A rectangle of hazed glass set at chest-level streams dim, warm light from beyond. He can make out shapes moving. People. Something orange.

Law's forehead presses, fever hot, against Rocinante’s collarbone. He's slumped and quiet now.

The handle turns, and Rocinante doesn't think twice before pushing it open.

#cyan ficstuff #lionheart notes #lionheart update #one piece #trafalgar D. Water Law #trafalgar law #donquixote rocinante #donquixote corazon #one piece fanfiction

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lavender-lotion · 6 years

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Don’t Come For His Family | 6,355k

Read the rest here! Read on AO3 here!

In the three years Stiles had been with Peter, the man had only talked about his family a handful of times - and as far as Stiles knew had never once spoken to them. So he wasn’t exactly excited to see the mans family, even though that’s exactly what they were about to do.

It does not go to plan.

‘ November 30: Dealer’s Choice - None of the theme suggestions catch your fancy? Maybe you have something completely different in mind for Steter week. Space pirates? Gender and/or sexuality exploration? Movie or book crossover? Historical AU? Create a Steter fan work that makes you happy! ’

Stiles had to let out another sigh. His heart was beating too loud and too fast inside his chest and he looked over at Peter again, trying to force his insecurity to the bottom of his chest. They’d already been through so much together, overcome their own challenges during their time as a couple. They had taken everything thrown at them and tossed it all back, becoming stronger for it. They had stuck through the hard times and they were solid.

This - this was just bigger. This wasn’t them arguing over the bill or Stiles’ eating habits. This wasn’t Stiles freaking out because surely five months was far too soon to move in together. This wasn’t Stiles fucking up Peter’s laundry and shrinking his favorite pair of lazy-day jeans, or Peter ‘borrowing’ Stiles’ paints and leaving the caps off, causing them to dry out. This was Stiles meeting Peter’s family for the first time, and fuck it, he was terrified.

He was terrified.

Stiles was not ignorant to how they looked as a couple. He was fully aware of the picture they made while standing next to each other. Peter, to Stiles’ surprise, was not wearing a suit. Rather he was dressed in black slacks, expensive loafers and a button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up - if only to bring further attention to his rolex.

The top few buttons of the man’s shirt were undone and his chest hair was peeking out, his hair perfectly styled and beard trimmed short and neat, no more of his god awful super-villain goatee. The man was ridiculously attractive despite the grey edging his hair line.

And Stiles was wearing skinny jeans. Black, rips littering both knees from use, though he had cuffed them in an effort to appear more put together. His hair was askew - as per usual - and his glasses were once again falling down his nose, the thick black rims not staying still. His converse were scuffed, dirty and worn and in desperate need of new laces.

The shirt he had grabbed this morning was one of Peter’s and it hung loosely on his frame, the low v-neck the man usually wore exposing much more of Stiles’ chest. His neck was decorated with a ring of bruises, indents from Peter’s teeth still pressed into the darkest spots of his skin.

So he knew how the looked together. Peter was more than graceful in his late thirties and Stiles a clumsy, freshly turned nineteen. Peter, the rich and successful lawyer and Stiles, who worked at a small cafe to buy painting supplies. Peter who was made of clean, sharp lines and Stiles who was swirling ink all over and two rings in his left brow.

They looked a certain way and because of that people tended to make assumptions on their relationship. They would assume things worked between them a certain way, or were together for certain reasons, and nothing angered Stiles more. It wasn't so much that people often hinted at him being some kind of gold digging sugar baby, it was the insinuation that he didn’t love the man he was with.

And he did, love Peter. They had been together longer than necessarily legal - Stiles had graduated before his peers, getting his diploma at sixteen. He had then went to college and had met the man soon after.

Stiles had paid a small rent to hang a few of his paintings in a local coffee shop and Peter had contacted him for a commission. Discussion of the piece had turned into coffee dates that had turned into dinner dates that had turned into breakfast dates.

Stiles had moved into the man's penthouse right after his seventeenth birthday and had been together for nearly three years now. And honestly, he wasn’t sure why anyone thought it their right to do so, but permission or not people added their commentary. It wasn’t their relationship, or their life, or their fucking business, but whenever something was even remotely controversial, suddenly it's a free for all.

Stiles had dealt with more than enough during his time at University. He wasn’t shy about having Peter as his partner and would bring the man to outings. He didn’t think it fair that everyone else got to be with their significant others except he, and it annoyed him that it was expected of him to go out on his own. So he brought Peter out, often and shamelessly - the man was hot, okay - and people decided to comment on it. Whether is was the ’wow he’s really old’ or the ’dude isn’t he, like, your dad's age?’ Stiles had heard it all - and all of it was unwelcome.

From what the man had told Stiles about his family, he was preparing himself for the worse. Apparently they were a judgmental group of people and Stiles dealt with that enough in his day to day life. It was hard dating a man nineteen years his senior, even when they lived somewhere as open minded as San Francisco.

So was he excited to meet the man's family? Not particularly, no. Peter had never talked about them in a particularly positive light - going so far as to insult them more than he complimented them. The Hales’ were a relatively large family and apparently they could be opinionated, as well. One of Peter’s older sisters - Talia - was apparently the matriarch of the family, and after his parents passed away had taken on the role of the ‘head’ of the family.

She was married and had five children - though there was a considerable age gap between her three older ones and her younger two, Cora and Dylan being nine years apart, the biggest age gap between Laura and Alexander at 13 years. Then there was Peter’s other sister and her husband with their twin girls, one married and the other engaged.

They were all going to be at the dinner.

The dinner they were standing outside of. Or, technically they were standing outside the house, but specifics. Stiles was holding a hideously baked pie - trying desperately to stop the shaking of his fingers. Peter was holding a canvas - large, and he struggled to carry it one handed - a piece he had painted exactly for this night. It was a wonderful mix of colour and texture and it had been something Stiles had been working on for the past few days, trying to quell his anxiety over the night's events as he powered through the work.

Peter had told him he was being silly every time Stiles refused to join him for meals, too engrossed in his work to leave. Though, he was also the same man who had admitted he had not seen his family for three years because of how crazy they all supposedly were. Really, Stiles had no idea why they were even here. Okay, well that was not true. Apparently Laura had seen Peter out and about in Beacon Hills and had told her mother who hadn’t stopped calling Peter until the man finally answered.

Stiles could attest to this, since he had sat beside the man and they watched call after call be sent to voicemail. They had ate dinner with Stiles’ father, gone for a quiet walk around the little park at the edge of town and then had a nice round of slow, sweet sex. When Peter finally checked his phone before bed his missed calls had been in the two hundreds and they had both stared at the phone wide eyed as it started to ring again.

At that point Peter really did answer it, if only to yell at his older sister. Somehow the man had agreed to dinner - though the man had admitted it was just to shock his family with his ’hot young piece of ass’. Stiles had smacked the man over the head then flushed at the compliment - even after years of being together still embarrassed when Peter complimented his body.

While Stiles enjoyed the compliment, he did not enjoy the insulation and Peter knew that, knew how sensitive Stiles was about that sort of comment. So in apology the man had woken him with breakfast and a blowjob and Stiles had quickly forgiven him, though he did force the man to cuddle for the rest of the day - ignoring the fact that they would be meeting the man's whole family that evening.

When evening did come Stiles had just sighed dramatically, dressing easily and pulling the pie he had made the night before. He wished a good night to his dad, the man laughing at his dramatics as he pretended to faint in the doorway - claiming illness so he could stay home.

Peter had not let him stay home.

Peter had also just rang the doorbell, the traitor, so Stiles plastered a smile onto his face, his hands shaking under the pie tin. He hoped it wasn’t obvious, especially given how ugly the pie was to begin with. He was an artist, he was not a baker and he told Peter that, explained to the man that there was a reason Stiles hadn’t once baked in their entire relationship. The man had just instead they make something, and while making a mess of his father's kitchen had been fun, the result was hideous.

Stiles was not sure what he was expecting when the door opened but having to look down was not it. The boy in the doorway was wearing cargo shorts and a neon yellow shirt - his hair even messier than Stiles’. The boy just looked up with big eyes, his small hand holding the door open.

“Hello, Uncle Peter,” The kid said with zero affliction, his voice incredibly flat.

“Hello, Alexander,” Peter said equally without tone, but a moment later both smiled wide, the boy throwing himself at Peter’s legs.

Alex pulled back and Stiles watched with a tilted head as the boy stared up at Peter before reeling back and punching the man in the stomach, “That is for going three years without so much as a phone call!”

“Well you could have called me,” Peter argued, though his free hand was holding his stomach. The punch had looked a little painful.

Stiles was almost proud of the look the kid leveled his boyfriend - he hadn’t realized so much attitude could exist in such a small body, “I am thirteen. I do not have a phone.”

Stiles snorted at that causing the boy to look over at him, “Uh hi?”

“Who is that?” Alex asked, looking back up at his Uncle.

“That is my boyfriend.”

“He’s pretty. Marvel or DC?” Stiles ignored the first part of the comment, though Peter did make a questioning noise at the assessment.

“DC, duh.”

“Uncle Peter, I approve.” Stiles smiled wide, offering the kid his fist and internally jumping with joy when the boy bumped theirs together, finally moving aside to let them step into the house.

“Small one, take the pie.” Peter said to the boy, smiling when the kid grumbled.

Stiles had never really thought about children. Sure, he had always sort of wanted his own, but it was more of a far off, abstract idea. He had definitely never thought about having kids with Peter, though it was less to do with the man and more to do with the fact that he just - hadn’t. Spending the rest of his life with the man? Yes, he had thought about it and yes, he was planning on doing so. He couldn’t see himself being with anyone else, didn’t even want to think about it.

But he was still young, in absolutely no rush to have kids but - but he couldn’t help but thinking what Peter may want. The man was nearly forty, surely he would want to have kids soon? Unless Peter didn’t want to kids at all, which Stiles really hoped wasn’t true. Seeing him interact with his Nephew was giving Stiles a fairly good preview as to what Peter would be like as a dad, and even if he hadn’t thought of it before now, he wanted.

He passed the pie off to Alex who was dutifully holding his hands out and he stepped closer to Peter as the man ruffled the boy's hair before sending him off. Stiles wrapped an arm around Peter’s waist and stepped close, the man smiling softly down at him.

“Do you want kids?” Stiles blurted out - and okay, not how he was going to do it. Though in all fairness, nothing ever worked out how Stiles thought it would.

“Well, I would like to, one day,” The man said, cocking his head to the side as he continued to look down at Stiles

“Like, when one day? And how many?” Stiles asked excitedly, smiling wide up at the man. Peter also wanted kids, score!

“Is this really a conversation we should be having right now, darling?” Which was a good point, and Stiles flushed slightly, turning his face into Peter’s neck.

They stayed like that for a long moment before Peter stepped back, leaning Stiles’ painting against the hall for later. The house had seemed big from the driveway and it looked far larger now that they were inside. The ceiling was high and they were in a sort of entry way, closets on both sides of the front door. Peter took his hand and pulled him further down the front hall, a staircase set into the wall at their left. To the right was a large living room, big, L shaped couches and loveseats scattered about. The entertainment table was large, shelves surrounding a big TV.

There was a fair bit of art on the walls and Stiles was already feeling better about his decision to bring something. He startled when a head popped up from behind one of the couches, a small boy peering over the arm. The kid looked young and Stiles was having trouble placing him. Peter had told him about his family and Stiles had taken notes, quizzing the man until he was sure he would know everyone's name by the first moment he walked into the house. The boy walked over slowly, shyly stepping in front of Peter before he looked up.

“Dylan, this is Stiles,” Peter introduced, crouching down the boy's level. Stiles didn’t have a lot of experience with young children, and he knew Dylan was ten, though he hardly looked more than six or seven.

The boy blinked up at Stiles though he didn’t say anything for a long moment. When he did finally do something it wasn’t to talk, instead he stepped forward until he was standing directly in front of the man and poked him on the wrist. Stiles had a grayscale butterfly there, one of the many, many tattoos he had. It was fairly large, overall the size of his palm and it wrapped around his wrist.

The wings were incredibly detailed and it was one of the first pieces Stiles had got, his friend Erica still training but already an amazing artist. He got a great deal because it was done by an ‘ammature’ and was still one of the better pieces he had.

“That’s cool,” The boy breathed with wide eyes still poking at the ink.

“Thanks!” Stiles said happily, crouching down so he was eye level, “Do you like the butterfly? Because I have another on my back if you want to see it?”

The boy just stared before he started nodding rapidly and Stiles grinned wide, turning and lifting his shirt to show off the collection of butterflies he had on his lower back. Fingers ghosted over the ink there, small fingers gently stroking the skin along his side. Stiles grinned up at Peter only to find the man watching them with a warm smile.

’I love you,’ The man mouthed at him and Stiles smiled wider, his heart fluttering stupidly in his chest when he mouthed it back

“What’s this one?” Dylan asked, his fingers pushing harder against the middle of his spine.

“That is a sprig of lavender.” Stiles said, biting his lip to try and control his smile.

He loved when kids enjoyed his tattoos. They still weren’t as accepted as he would like and he was used to getting strange looks because of them. So for Dylan to be so curious and to be getting to much enjoyment out of them pleased him, especially because the boy had seemed so timid at first.

“It’s pretty.” The boy said and the awe was apparent in his voice.

“It smells good to!” Stiles said, resting one hand on Peter’s thigh to help keep his balance when Dylan pushed harder against his back, laying his palm flat against Stiles’ skin.

“So cool,”

“Dylan!” A woman called, startling the boy so bad he would have fallen if Stiles hadn’t whipped around right away, catching the boy and tugging him against his side with his free hand.

“There ya go, buddy,” Stiles said once the kid had regained his balance, flashing the boy a smile as he tugged his shirt back down just in time, since a tall woman strode in, wearing slacks and a blazer and looking entirely too put together in the soft light of the room.

Peter had straightened his back as soon as he heard the woman's voice, his ’I am an amazing lawyer and will take all your money’ smirk firmly in place. Stiles thought it looked a little less intimidating without the goatee, but he did not regret making the man grow the thing out one bit.

Stiles stood when the woman entered, having made sure Dylan was good on his own. Peter took a step forward, putting himself between Stiles and the woman, presumably one of his sisters. Stiles wasn’t sure if it were Talia and Marissa, both being close in age and apparently having similar appearances. Though by the outfit and the tightness of her posture, Stiles had to guess it was Talia.

“Peter! When did you get in?” Talia - certainly Talia if the way Peter’s shoulders tensed further was anything to go by - asked, ushering Dylan out of the room and back down the hall without a word.

“Talia,” Peter said flatly, not stepping up to shake the outstretched the hand. Stiles looked between the two nervously, shifting his weight to one foot - Talia’s eyes snapping towards when as he did so.

“Oh, and who is this?” She asked and Stiles didn’t know her, but she could tell the cheer in her voice was faked.

“This is Stiles,” The man said simply, offering out his elbow and Stiles stepped forward to take it, wrapping his hand softly around the mans arm.

"Peter you never told us you married!" Talia exclaimed and Stiles watched as she smiled, fake.

"That would be because I never did, sister dear," Peter’s voice was colder than Stiles had ever heard it, and it made him look over at the man in concern.

"Well, who is this if not your stepson!?" Peter bristled at the comment and Stiles was having none of it. You did not come for his family.

He sidled up close to the man's side, plastering himself to his boyfriend's body and looping an arm around his neck, tangling his hand in the man's hair and pulling Peter’s face into his neck. His let his other hand rest on Peter’s chest, tucking a few fingers into the gap between two buttons and turning his head to look at Talia.

“Sweetheart, I thought you told me your mother died? Who is this woman?” Stiles asked, smiling just as widely and just as falsely as Talia was - after all, he learned how to deal with bullies long, long ago.

The insult hit its mark and the woman took a step back, hand going to cover her mouth, “I am his sister.

“Oh dear! I am so sorry,” Here Peter buried his face deeper into Stiles neck, chuckling silently against his skin, “I just assumed that with your age…”

“Why yo-” Talia began, though she was cut off when a girl Stiles’ age came barreling into the room, jumping onto Peter’s back and knocking both himself and Stiles off balance.

“Uncle Peter!” The girl shouted, disentangling herself from her Uncle only to stare at Stiles for a long moment.

Stiles was sure he knew her, but he couldn't quite decide who she was. He then felt incredibly stupid for not making the connection earlier and smiled wide at the girl, before exclaiming, “Cora Hale!”

“Stiles Stilinski!” She called with just as much enthusiasm, rounding Peter for a hug that Stiles gladly accepted.

“Dude,”

“Dude,” She said again, looking between himself and Peter. Stiles just nodded and smiled smugly, stepping closer to the man.

“You two know each other?” Peter asked and they both smirked at the man at the same time before bumping fists, much like he and Alexander had done.

“Also,” Cora said, before turning and punching Stiles hard in the arm, “That is for disappearing!”

“I did not disappear!” Stiles exclaimed, rubbing at his arm, “I graduated.”

“You did what?!”

“Yeah, I took extra classes each year and summer, then I graduated and went to San Francisco like we always planned and I got a job as a barista,” Stiles explained, greatly over simplifying his struggle, and the help he ended up receiving from Peter.

“Do you still paint?” She asked, her eyes bright with excitement. They had taken art all throughout school together, often being the top of their class.

“Yeah, that’s how I met Peter,” Stiles admitted, pointing to the hall, “I brought a piece for the house.”

“Yeah,” Cora began, scrunching up her face, “I can’t believe you’re fucking my Uncle.”

“Cora!” Talia loudly scolded, alerting them to her presence. Stiles had figured the woman had left, but it seemed as though her and Peter were stuck in some sort of staring contest. Peter still looked stiff and Stiles smirked before he sauntered closer.

He looked over at Cora and shot her a wink before once again tangling his hand in Peter’s hair, though this time he brought their mouths together, licking inside the man's lips and sucking on his tongue, moaning lowly as he pressed their bodies together. He was mostly putting on a show, though Peter was an amazing kisser. Either way it was hard to pull back, though when he finally did the man's face was flushed and Cora was giggling.

Talia looked horrified.

Perfect.

“Come, I want to meet everyone else!” Stiles demanded, dragging Peter by the hand and linking arms with Cora on the way, walking past Talia in obvious dismissal.

Apparently, the kitchen was down the hall. After passing the living room the house opened up wide, on his left an extravagant dining room and his right a large kitchen. A couple was standing at the island, talking lowly to one another and by the ages Stiles figures it were Marissa - Peter’s other sister - and her husband, Austin.

“I’ll meet you guys out back!” Cora called with a grin, alerting the two to their presence as she slipped past the hall and out the back door, leaving the sliding glass open behind her.

Peter offered his elbow once more - Stiles taking it with a kiss to the man's cheek - and led them forward, smiling widely at his older sister. It was nice to see Peter so happy to see someone. Sure, the man had friends back home - they both did - but most of Peter’s friends were work friends, other lawyers - and most of them were just trying to get a leg up in their world.

Peter’s practice had been successful for the half decade it had been around, and it wasn’t unusual for the man to come home from lunches muttering about corporate sharks. Thankfully he had joined a basketball team a couple of years ago. It keeped Peter active and in shape - why the man was glad he joined - but it also gave him people who he could socialize with in a healthy way - was Stiles was glad he joined.

“And this is my other sister,” The woman was gorgeous, and although she did look like Talia, the woman's face seemed much younger - smiles lines and crow's feet sat etched into her skin while Talia had deep wrinkles running across her forehead, around her mouth. Marissa had aged with grace, the happiness she lived through clear on her face while Talia only looked like stress.

“Oh good! I have been waiting to meet you,” Stiles said, smile genuine. Because of everything he had heard from Peter, Marissa - and Cora - were some of the only family Stiles didn’t already dislike. So when the woman opened up for a hug Stiles went with it, allowing the woman to pull him in.

“Brother, introduced us!” She demanded with a laugh and Stiles grinned at his boyfriend, watching him smile softly

“Stiles this is Marissa, the sister I actually love, and Marissa this is Stiles, light of my life,” The man said, ending the sentence with a slight bow and Stiles snorted at the man's dramatics, turning to drop a quick kiss to the man's shoulder.

“Peter has never brought anyone home before, you must be special,” She said with a smirk and Stiles’ own softened into something sweet.

“Well I’d hope after three years…” Stiles trailed off, sending a teasing grin at the man and missing how Marissa’s mouth dropped open in shock as she gaped at the older man.

“The-three years?”

“Yes, sister.” Peter said, and they shared a series of looks that apparently constituted a conversation, since they both seemed to be on the same page when Peter finally nodded, only looking away to face Stiles, kissing the boys cheek.

“Uhm, so…” Stiles trailed off, unsure of what exactly just happened.

“So! Come and meet my girls!” Marissa said, grabbing Stiles and pulling him outside, both men trailing behind them.

The backyard was large, backing the preserve. There was a large table set up in the middle of the yard, delicately decorated. It look more like it was for show than practical use, especially sitting on grass. The table was a dark wood, covered in a cream table cloth and set with expensive looking plates and glasses. There was a bottle of wine on each end and another, smaller table with just two plate settings that Stilles assumed were for the boys.

It was outrageous, Stiles thought, though he only had so long to stare before Marissa was dragging him across the yard, barrelling towards two girls who look older than himself.

The twins looked much like their mother, though they made Stiles a little uncomfortable. Their introduction had been a little awkward, and it was clear neither girl particularly cared for their Uncle. He also couldn’t help but feel strange that he was younger than all the man's family - save Talia’s two younger sons and Cora, who he was the same age as. Besides that, neither girl seemed particularly welcoming, though Stiles did have a decent conversation with Mike, Crystal’s financé, about video games.

It was just - their age difference was obvious yes, but not to each other. It didn’t come up in their daily life as a couple, and sure other people were quick to point it out but in all honestly they didn't go out all that much. Stiles was an artist first and foremost and while he was taking part time classes at the local college, he spent most of his time working on commissioned pieces or working shifts at Starbucks, enjoying the job even if he no longer needed the money.

Peter just worked a lot, and they would often be in their office/studio, both working, existing together in companionable silence. So, the age gap in their relationship was not very often relevant to them, and Stiles didn’t like being put into situations where it was. It wasn’t as though he wanted to ignore it or pretend it away, it was that it didn’t matter.

Soon enough Talia was calling for dinner, her voice ringing clear as Marissa’s husband, another man around the same age and one only a few years older than Stiles began carrying out trays of food. Stiles was a little surprised that they didn’t have a service for this, but he figured that may be a little too much even for Talia.

He took his seat beside Peter, sitting on the far side and leaving a few empty seats next to each of them. They were the first to sit and figured there were sitting in the most neutral position possible. Marissa had sat next to Peter and Cora had sat next to Stiles, bumping their shoulders together and grinning.

Stiles had to admit he did not listen to Talia’s speech. Peter’s hand was a comfortable weight high on his thigh and he was fiddling with the man's fingers, distractedly tracing shapes and designs into the mans skin. Talia sat herself at the end of the table and her - at least Still assumed the man was Patrick - husband sat at the other. The rest of the kids - Talia’s and Marissa’s children - sat on the side opposite Stiles and he couldn't say he was glad when Laura sat across from him.

He - he knew about Laura. Stiles’ father was the Sheriff of the town and he was a respected, well loved man. The people of the town adored him and even though he was getting old, he was still more than competent at his job. Laura - Laura was a recent officer and one who thought she knew how to do everything.

Often during their second-nightly phone calls his father would complain about the girl questioning his work, or how he assigned shifts, or his authority. And it wasn’t just his father, either. Jordan Parrish was like a brother to Stiles, the man having been on the force since the boy was thirteen. They had developed a deep friendship founded in Star Trek and never looked back. They still talked at least once a week and although Jordan had a very obvious crush on his father, they were close.

Jordan had also been quick to point out Laura’s flaws, ranting about the new girl who thought she was all that. And it wasn’t just his dad Laura criticized, either. She was quick to go after Jordan, picking apart cases the man was working on and trying to poke holes in his theories or tarnish his witness’. Really, she was a bitch who thought herself better than others, and Stiles wasn’t surprised now that he had met both her and Talia.

It was quite after Talia’s toast and Stiles was just happy to be able to eat. His pie was sitting in the center of the table, looking even uglier now that it was on display next to fancy, expensive food bowls and servings instruments. He loaded Peter’s plate - the man engaged in conversation with his sister - before going about making up his own, really only grabbing from the things he or Cora could reach.

“So Stiles, you never did mention what you do for a living?” Talia asked, staring down the table at him. He had only just taken his first bite and although the chicken were good, it was rather bland.

“I’m an artist, actually,” He said, grinning. He was good at what he did and he figured he was allowed to be proud of himself for it.

“Oh,” Talia said, disapproval heavy in her tone, “How exactly does that work.”

“I personally work on a commission basis. So people will essentially hire me to paint a specific painting,” Stiles tried to explain it as simply as he could. He didn't have the energy to explain how his business worked to someone who so clearly did not care, either.

“I see.” Thankfully Talia had turned to her food, and the dinner had continued on. Cora pulled Stiles into a conversation about San Francisco, and Stiles began excitedly telling her about their life there, waving his hands as he spoke.

He was startled out of his conversation by Laura, an ugly smirk on her face when she asked, “So Stiles, how old are you, anyway?”

“Uh, yeah I’m nineteen?” Stiles admitted with a shrug, the entire table going quite as he did so.

“I mean I already knew that,” Cora added, sending a small smile to Stiles. He was thankful for her support, and god he hoped they could reconnect. He had missed few people, but she was one of them.

“You know what, this all makes a lot more sense now,” Laura muttered, taking another sip from her wine cup. Stiles wanted to punch her, a little.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, just the arrangement you two have.” She said it like it were simple, an accepted fact that the others were all in on. At this point Stiles really wanted to punch her.

“Are you seriously implying that I’m what? His sugar baby? A whore?” Stiles spat the word, old hurt quickly resurfacing. If there was one thing dating an older, financially successful man caused, was name calling. It may have been easier if Peter was nothing more than a sugar daddy, but he wasn’t. Stiles loved the other man, planned to spend the rest of his life with Peter. He hated when people insinuated he was only with the man for his money because it wasn’t true.

“Look, the gig is up. We all know what’s going on.” Laura said again, smile still on he face.

“No, I really don’t think we do?” Cora added from his side, squeezing his knee under the table.

“I mean, why else would anyone be with Peter? It’s not like Stiles would be with him willingly!” She laughed then, looking around as if to see who else would agree. Other than Talia, no one looked interested what so ever. Peter’s hand had gone tight on his thigh, the man's jaw set heavily.

Peter - Peter had been treated badly before. It took nearly two years to find out a little more about the man's dating history, and Stiles could understand why. Peter had dealt with people dating him strictly for his money before, one girl going so far as to be with him for over two years. Peter had proposed - and Stiles could guess that was why he had yet to do the same for Stiles - only to find out the girl had been with him strictly for his money, and had taken off.

Stiles couldn't even imagine what that may feel like, but he knew how deeply it haunted Peter. The rockiest parts of their relationship had been due to the money imbalance, and Stiles had kept his job at Starbucks and a separate bank account in case they ever broke up - at Peter’s insistence. It had taken Stiles months to convince the man he really cared for him, that it was more than the material things Peter could provide that attracted him.

“You really don't need to pretend. I mean, we all know what happened with Ashley.”

“Say one more word about him and I swear to god you’ll never work so much as a security position in all of California!” Stiles hissed, slamming his hands flat on the table and leaning forward, staring her down until she relented, shifting her eyes and hunching her shoulders forward.

“How dare you talk to my daughter that way!” Talia protested, glaring at the boy.

“Hey, hey! How about you shut up, sit down, and the rest of us will go back to pretending that we don’t know you’re a money laundering, whore buying bitch.” Stiles said cheerfully, grinning wide at the other woman, “Oh, wait was that a secret?”

Stiles watched with disinterest as the woman screeched, throwing herself out of her chair before literally throwing her wine at Stiles, the liquid soaking his hair and dripping down his face. Stiles carefully picked up his napkin and dabbed the wine out of his eyes, not a care in the world. At least, that’s what he hoped he looked like.

“That was so much fun!” Stiles exclaimed, giggling as he watched Patrick all but wrestle Talia into the house, literally picking her up and carrying her inside the house, the door slamming behind them.

“Well, it was lovely meeting most of you!” Stiles exclaimed, raising to his feet and clapping his hands together to hide how they were shaking.

That - that did not go over as planned. He had gotten dirt on Talia as a safety precaution, a last resort. He hadn’t even meant to share any of what he knew, hadn’t even told Peter. He just needed to be prepared for the worst and some of the things Peter had told him about his sister had made him overly cautious. And he knew what he had done maybe wasn’t right - definitely wasn’t legal - but he had a super lawyer for a boyfriend, and if it could get Peter’s shoulder to relax and his jaw to unclench, he’d do it.

He pulled the man out of the backyard, circling around the house instead of making his way through, not willing to see Talia again. He had no idea what could be happening right now, and frankly had no pleasure to find out. He knew he had probably ruined any relationship he would have with a portion of Peter’s family, but he couldn’t bring himself to care - not when they acted like that.

“Marry me,” Peter breathed against Stiles neck. They had just made their way to the car when Peter had spun him around, pining Stiles to the jeep door and pressing their bodies together, mouthing at the boy’s skin.

“I'm sorry,” Stiles muttered, embarrassed.

“I’m serious.” Peter insisted, voice cracking, and he leaned back to look at Stiles with tears in his eyes, smile on his lips, “I love you, I love you. Marry me?”

Stiles could only nod, laughing bright.

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