#where the hell is this fool's den. where is his pack. why does he live like this all the time.

[sokovianfortune]

jack thinks the wolf is a dangerous killing machine. the wolf, however, thinks that jack is perhaps the most baffling human he has ever encountered which is saying a lot because those things are already weird as hell.

[slippinmickeys]

Currahee

Her bathroom smells of verbena and linen with a very slight hint of mildew underlying all, about which she cannot bring herself to care. She used to light candles and listen to music when she bathed, but those days are past. The tub thunders to full behind her, adding a tidal brine to the air.

Mulder’s bathroom smells like toothpaste and Pert, and has a red rubber duckie with devil horns perched on the back of the toilet. She looks at it whenever she is in there, wonders if it ever floats with him in the tub. She has considered getting him an angelic duckie to balance the space, to tip the scales of his life a bit more towards the light.  

Earlier in the day, she had stumbled while writing the word “success” in a report. No matter how many times spell check ran clean, the word did not look right on the screen. She’s reminded of that off-putting moment as she stares at her own reflection, dark smudges under her eyes and her fingers bare, loneliness writ large.

The temperature of the water in the tub behind her is almost volcanic, a light steam rising from it in the cool air of the bathroom. She gives herself one more look in the mirror before she steps into it.  

She knows she is pretty, she isn’t so humble that she won’t admit it. But she is also short, dissentient—a redheaded iconoclast in a world populated by leggy brunettes easily impressed by Mulder’s handsome nous. She’s been making a fool of herself over him for years and she isn’t even his type.

She sinks her head under the water of the bath in fit of petulant ennui.

She wonders if she appears as spinsterish as she feels, if the checkout clerk views her meager dinner-for-one groceries and thinks how sad. Mulder may be ever present in every other stratum of her life, but her cupboards are all Dana Scully; slight, a little wanting, there but for her.

She shaves her legs with precision and care--as she approaches all things--but wonders what for, exactly. It is March, the month after her birth, and still pretty cold--she will likely not be wearing skirts. She supposes she shaves for herself.

After 30 minutes, the water begins to cool, the wind outside the bathroom window pushing branches into it, a dull clawing sound in the humid air. There is a spot of shaving foam drifting dreamily along the surface of the water and it finally glides into the top of her knee, clinging there.

Sometimes she thinks of her heart as a Christmas tree. At one point it had been bright, cheerful, full of hope and spirit. But time had worn it down, turned it brittle. She was afraid if she were to let someone touch it, it would fall to pieces in their hands.

She finally drains the bath and steps out, feeling slippery and oversaturated. Her bones feel like they weigh twice what they did when she got in.

XxXxXxXxXxX

He thinks of the gold-plated records on Voyager, afield in the endless vacuum of space, a blueprint of life on earth. It passed beyond the orbit of Pluto in 1990. It will be 40,000 years before it even approaches another planetary system. It is the culmination of humanity, and no bigger than a small car.

If you packed everything that mattered from his life into a vessel, it would be five feet and two inches of clomping skepticism, with a face that could send men to war and a sheath of carrot hair.

She wielded knives that sliced flesh from bone and dipped her head when she received a compliment. He’d long ago memorized the way her lips looked when she said his name.

As if the universe were listening to his thoughts, came, “Mulder.”

He shook his head from where he stood in the doorway of the morgue, and looked to her.

She pulled her mask down off her face and removed her protective goggles. She looked tired, worn out. She shook her head at him.

“Nothing,” she said, “absolutely no trace evidence whatsoever.”

He believed her. If there had been anything there, she would have found it.

He moved into the room and stood next to her, looking at the body, neatly sewn back up; her sutures straight and tidy--one last act of respect she could pay the dead.

He sighed, leaned on the cold examination table and then thought better of it, absently wiping his hands on the outside of his coat. She made a move to go around him.

“Excuse me,” she said, not impatiently, and he tried to get out of the way but bumped into her when she passed.

Mulder felt like a giant next to her, with his clomping feet and hulking frame. He was all elbows and knees and felt like he was taking up all the oxygen in the room.

A clutch of something like guilt squeezed his heart. Like sorrow.

You weren’t supposed to fall in love with your partner. She was out of bounds, forbidden fruit, impermissible. She wasn’t supposed to become so big a part of your life that you needed her like air.

Scully was scrupulous, a rule-follower—not like Mulder, the rebel in the basement. She always went the speed limit and picked up litter. She’d pulled his ass out of the fire more times than he could count. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with your partner, and Scully always followed the rules.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said, and she nodded, snapped off the latex.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Something compelled her out into the world that evening after she’d gotten home and showered the morgue off of her.

Once out of her front door, she was hit with the sweet smell of spring--daffodils coming to life in window boxes, chattering squirrels peeking out of trees. She felt a call to the river.

Georgetown didn’t have a Metro stop, so she got in her car, let it pull her toward the Potomac. Once across, she was in Virginia, and it was enough to know that he was there, too.

Past National Airport, she pulled into a parking lot filled with trucks and SUVs attached to empty boat trailers. There were sailboats bobbing in the inlet, people jogging, pushing strollers, rollerblading down the Mount Vernon trail. She joined them and walked and walked.

She found herself in Alexandria and let the pull of him carry her into the city. She stopped for dinner and a glass of wine on Duke Street, and she allowed herself to relax, sink into the chair, watch the people walking past just to see them--something she had not done in years. She saw a woman who looked like Melissa and remembered why.

She thought of her sister; of this world, but not in it, living on only in memory, in the hint of perfume on an old sweater, in the auburn curls of a stranger walking by.

After dinner, she went looking for quiet and found it in a cemetery nearby, some of the graves there older than the country itself. She sat on a bench as the sun went down. Despite the dusk, all around her, the city was coming to life. DC was shaking off its torpor and she felt like she was coming out of hibernation, herself. There was a moment where she thought of all the people who have ever lived—and died—were ever underfoot. The space above the ground is for the living, and she needed to start doing more of it.

She turned toward Hegal Place.

XxXxXxXxXxX

He was thinking about her, as he laid on his couch, unable to sleep. He was usually thinking about her.

A quick one-two knock came at his door, and when he opened it,  she was there, as if thought could call a person across space and time.

“Scully,” he said with surprise, and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

“It’s late,” she said, as if she wasn’t the one that walked all the way to his apartment at 11:00pm.

“Come in,” he said, again.

XxXxXxXxXxX

She ducked under his arm, into the dark enclave of his apartment. It smelled like leather and fish tank and him.

She plopped on the couch, kicked off her shoes. The leather was still warm from his body heat.

“Everything all right?” he asked, lowering himself onto the other end of the couch.

She gave him a long look, considering.

“I don’t know,” she said, “is it?”

He stayed quiet, waiting for her to elaborate.

“Mulder, are you happy?” she asked him.

He raised a shoulder. “Sure,” he said.

“I believe you’re content,” she said, “but are you happy?”

“Are you?”

“No.”

He sighed, leaned back. She knew he took it as a personal affront.

“You want out,” he said.

“No,” she said, “that’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“What are you saying?”

She closed her eyes. She wasn’t even sure if she knew.

“I want… “ she started, looked at him, “I want more than a career. I want to live.”

She looked to his hands in his lap, at the finger the terrorists broke, his left pinkie, noticed how the knuckles in it were bigger and knobbier with calcified healing. Right next to his ring finger, she thought.

“Is that… do you…” he struggled, but at least he was trying to understand, she thought. “Does that mean you want to go skydiving or something?”

Her head fell back against the back of the couch. Why were they like this?

“I want a life, Mulder,” she said, “I want someone to come home to.”

“I understand,” he said, and she saw something pass over his face. “I want that for you, too.”

To hell with it.

“For God’s sake, Mulder, I want you.”

Contrary to her every expectation, Mulder stood from the couch and walked out of the room without a word.

Oddly, it didn’t bother or scare her. She wondered if he were trying to compose himself so he could let her down gently? Either way, she was no longer afraid.

After about a minute, she stood and went to look for him. He was not in the kitchen, nor his bedroom.

“Scully,” her name from behind her, close behind her, startled her, awoke something low in her belly. His whisper sounded like the night.

“Mulder,” she said, sharp and quick, and she was about to turn toward him when he stopped her--stepped right into her, his chest into her back. She could feel his breath puffing into her hair.

XxXxXxXxXxX

He tumbled into his bathroom and drew a deep breath. He tried to think of a way to give her an out. Deep down, he knew that a part of him was convinced that his love was a weapon that could only hurt people, but he is selfish and so far he has always been able to save her.

If she wanted him--wanted this, he was powerless to deny her.

She was standing in the doorway of his bedroom, doubtless looking for where he’d disappeared to. He approached her on silent feet. Whispered her name.

He startled her, he could tell, so he stepped up close, could feel her sharp intake of breath. After a moment, she turned to him, but didn’t step back. She looked up, a question in her eyes.

“Do you know the story of the 101st Airborne?” his voice was less than a whisper.

She quirked a grin. He knew she would.

He reached out and grabbed her face with both hands, ran his lips over hers, softer than butterfly wings. Rested his forehead against hers.

“Geronimo,” he said.

She gave a small laugh and he thought he could hear the shadow of relief in it.

Her hair shone like an old penny in the dusky glow of the street lamps outside his window.

She nodded at him, he nodded back.

Slowly, so slowly, he lowered his face until his lips met hers and pressed into them. She pressed back. Give, take. Everything they had ever been to each other and everything they ever would.

Geronimo.

[katlyn1948]

Happy Sunday/Monday/Whatever day it is for you

I’ve been going back and forth on whether I or not I want to proceed with the current chapter of “Tale of Six Weddings” that I am working on or scrap the whole chapter and start anew. I can share what I have to begin with and get thoughts...only because I’m not sure of how it is going. I think it’s alright, but definitely needs some major re-work. Now would be a great time for someone to beta the shit out it... 

Without further ado, here it is...what I have been working on...

Gendry new Arya came from money, it was no surprise since her last name was Stark, but when he rounded the corner to drive down a never-ending driveway, he hadn’t expected the quaint house at the end of it. Its was small, by any means, but it wasn’t some grand mansion he had in mind either.

               It was the perfect size to house a family as large as the Starks, and still have room to accommodate any guests that decided to make a visit. And it was surprisingly homey.

               There were dog toys scattered across the lawn and a bike on its side perched by the stairs leading up to the porch. Several cars were already in the driveway and Gendry has to park his monster of a truck on the side of the house where Arya directed him to.

               It was a house that was definitely lived in; not just for the sole purpose of being on display. He could tell, but just the outside, that the Starks were a family unit that would be impossible to break up, no matter the situation.

               When his truck was finally parked and he turned off the engine, he noticed the hesitance in Arya’s eyes as she stared at the house before them. She had mentioned it had been near eight years since she was last home, and he could only imagine was memories were conjuring in her mind.

               Mindlessly, he grabbed her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.  

               It was a small gesture, but one that set his body aflame as his skin touched hers. He hadn’t meant for his hand to linger as on long as it did, but she made no move to pull it away, not until she gave a sharp nod and exited the vehicle.

               When he followed, he hadn’t expected the slight chill in the air. It was much cooler up here in the northern part of the region than it had been in King’s Landing. It was very different from the sticky heat, and a rather welcome reprieve to harsh summer slamming down in his hometown.

               No wonder Arya told him to pack warmer clothes. Albeit, he had to go out and buy some warmer clothes, considering his wardrobe consisted of t-shirts and shorts, with the occasional jeans, of course.

               “Are you cold?” Arya chimed as he pulled his sweater tighter around his body.

               Gendry shook his head, “No, why do you ask?”

               She smiled, a small laugh escaping her lips, “Because you’re shivering.”

               “Am I? Hadn’t noticed.” And he hadn’t. He was too preoccupied marveling that the house before him. He had never grown up in anything like what Arya’s childhood home was. Not even after Robert had found him. It was just him and his mother, up until her death, and then he moved into Davos’ place with his wife and their three sons. He was lucky to get the bathroom in time before the others did, let alone live in something as grand as her home.

               “Well,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “Let’s get this over with.”

               They made their way to the steps of her home with their bags in hand.

               Gendry could tell Arya was nervous, just by how reserved she was to enter. They stood outside in the crisp air for longer than Gendry would have liked, as Arya gathered the courage to enter. When she finally managed to step inside, they were greeted with nothing buy chaos.

               There were two young children screaming on the floor, a teenage boy and his girlfriend bickering on the couch in the living room. There were dogs running about, chasing after one another and the sounds of clattering in the kitchen wafting through the air.

               Who Gendry assumed to be Arya’s mother, had passed by their standing forms at least four times, with a phone pressed to her ear as she chided with someone on the other end.

               “I told you peonies, not daisies! My daughter’s wedding is tomorrow and you sent the wrong flowers! I need this corrected yesterday! We do not hav-” she stopped in her tracks, noticing them standing in the foyer. “I’ll have to call you back.”

She clicked off the phone in her hand and nearly ran to Arya, throwing herself into her arms and bringing Arya into a suffocating hug.

Gendry noticed the tension in Arya’s shoulders relax as she snaked her arms around her mother’s torso, squeezing her tightly.

“Oh my darling, girl! Why didn’t you tell you were coming today?”

Arya pulled from the hug and gave her mother a weak smile, “I wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised.” She turned to Gendry, giving him an interesting look. Like one of curiosity, but also scrutiny. He could see the gears working in her head, as if she couldn’t quite place him, but definitely recognized him. “And who is this?”

“Oh, mother…this is Gendry. He’s my…boyfriend.” Arya said a bit sheepishly. They had never actually called one another as ‘boyfriend’ or ‘girlfriend.’ It has always been ‘we’re together.’ The term has sent a chill down his spine, and he conceded that he quite liked the way it sounded coming from Arya’s lips.

“Ah, yes. I do remember Sansa mentioning that you would bring someone.” She extended her hand for Gendry to shake, and he gladly took it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you Gendry, I’m Catelyn.”

“The pleasure is all mine, truly.” He smiled, putting his best foot forward. He wanted to impress Arya’s mother, even if their relationship was fake. They were, after all, trying to fool them.

“You won’t be saying that in a few days.” Arya scoffed as she took in the exchange.

Her mother gave her a disapproving look, before glancing back at Gendry.

He could tell there was judgement in her eyes, as if she didn’t truly trust him. And why would she? She has just met him.

“Yes, well…I must get back on the phone with the florist. They sent the wrong flowers; can you believe that? I specifically said peonies and they sent daisies! Your sister is allergic to daisies; I cannot have her turning into a balloon on her wedding day. If you’ll excuse me.” She straightened herself up and stalked off towards the kitchen with her cell phone glued to the face.

Arya let out a forced laugh, “Well that could have gone worse.”

Gendry shrugged, “I think it went fine. I’m sure your mother will be a bit cold towards me, but she doesn’t know me. I get it.”

“No you don’t.” she sighed. “Come on, my youngest brother is in the living room, so are my niece and nephew.”

Gendry followed her to the living room past the foyer. It wasn’t by any means a formal living room, but one that was used constantly by revolving family members. Gendry noticed the teenage boy cuddled on the couch with a girl about the same age. Their earlier bickering has ceased, and they were now watching some stupid cartoon on the tv in front of them.

The boy had the same shade of auburn hair as Arya’s mother, with the same light blue eyes. There was no doubt he belonged to Catelyn, where Arya was the complete opposite. The girl in his lap had a light shade of brown hair, almost matching that of Arya’s and her brown eyes glistened in the light of the tv.

“Don’t let mom see you on the couch like that.” Arya said as she threw herself in between the young couple. The teenage boy groaned and shoved her out of the way, clearly annoyed by his sister’s antics. It took him a few seconds to realize that it was his sister, someone he hadn’t seen in ages, that had wedged herself in between them.

“Arya? What the hell are you doing here?” He exclaimed as he pulled her into a bear hug.

“What, like I would miss Sansa’s wedding? I’m sorry, but do you think I have a death wish?” She turned her attention to the girl, a sneaky smile creeping on her face. “Ly, does your mother know you’re here?”

“Oh, shove off, Arya! Of course my mother knows! You think she would let me see Rickon if your mother wasn’t supervising? Not to mention, Tal and Sansa are somewhere around here.” She scoffed as she crossed her arms over her chest. “By the gods, we can’t get even a little privacy. You know Robb tasked us with watching the twins.”

“Well do you blame them. I heard what happened. As if mother would ever trust you two alone again.” Arya’s gaze shifted to Gendry. He was awkwardly standing from the couch, unsure of where to move. “Gendry don’t be shy. This is my brother Rickon and his girlfriend, Lyanna.”

Gendry shuffled his way to where they were sitting on the couch and gave a small smile, “Hi.”

“Wow, a man of many words. You sure know how to pick ‘em sis.” Rickon scoffed.

Arya punched his shoulder as she rose from the couch, a scowl etched on her face, “Don’t listen to him Gendry, he’s just sour.”

She grabbed his hand again and weaved them through her childhood home. It was bit like a maze, and he was sure he would need a map to figure out where the kitchen was again.

“What was that about?” He asked as she continued to show him her home.

“He’s mad that our mother won’t let him go anywhere unsupervised with Lyanna. They were caught having sex when my mother was literally down the hall. I remember that call from Sansa and I could hear my mother yelling in the background.”

“And that’s why they were watching the twins.”

Arya nodded, “Robb’s doing. A good way to make sure they keep out of trouble.”

“Who? The twins or the melodramatic teens?”

Arya let out a laugh and Gendry couldn’t help but smile at her outburst. It was stark difference to her earlier demeanor, and he was glad she was feeling more comfortable around her own childhood home.

As she pulled him to, what he assumed to be a den, he noticed four adults huddled around a table, laughing and enjoying a bottle of ridiculously expensive wine.

“Arya….Arya!” a woman with the same hair and eyes and Rickon and her mother screamed, as she jumped from her chair, throwing her arms around Arya. “I knew it! I knew you would come today! And this must be the person you were telling me about. My name is Sansa, the bride. I’ve heard very little of you, except that you are my sister’s boyfriend. Gosh, it is so nice to meet you an-”

“Gods, Sans, how much wine have you had?” Arya grimaced as she took in her sister’s breath.

“Like two glasses.” She shrugged.

Theon scoffed from behind her, “Try like five. We’ve been getting intoxicated while the youngsters watch the smaller youngsters.”

Arya scoffed, “Classic Theon. Tell me again why my sister agreed to marry you.”

“My charm. My wits. My devilish good looks,” he turned his gaze to Gendry, eying suspiciously. “Speaking of devilish looks, who let this brooding man in?”

“I’m Gendry. Arya’s boyfriend.” This time he was the one to introduce himself. He wanted to gage Arya’s reaction of the word, and as he suspected, her cheeks flushed, and her body went tense. He gave a cheeky smile, knowing her could rile up a reaction like that.

“Well it’s nice to meet the mysterious man my future sister-in-law had kept so well hidden.” He gave a pat on Gendry’s back before turning his attention to Sansa, resting his hands on her shoulders. “Come on, love, let’s get you to bed before your mother has another cow.”

He guided out of the den, leaving Robb and Talisa still perched at the small table.

Robb had a steady glass of beer in his hand, while Talisa sipped on her own wine respectively.

“Was that about the flowers?” Arya asked as she took her seat across from her older brother. Gendry followed, taking his own seat.

It was interesting to see Arya interact with her family. It was side of her he had yet to see, and he delighted in watching it. It made him wish he had grown up with that type of family dynamic. Sure, Davos and Mayra did all they could to make sure he was felt included, even their sons were like his brothers, but it was different. He had joined their family when he was fifteen; he hadn’t grown up with them, not really.

To see the ease she had around them, her family, he envied it.

“Unfortunately, it’s not just the flowers.” Talisa chimed. “The caterer cancelled last minute, and the venue flooded.”

“Then is there a bloody wedding to even go to?” Arya asked.

Robb nodded, “The wedding is going to be here, with about half the guest list. And…mother may ask you a favor.”

“And what is that?”

“Her wedding party was also cut by half. It’s only Talisa and Jeyne…and you.”

“Me! But I-no! I told Sansa I didn’t want to be in her wedding! I-”

“Ar, it’s our sister, come on.”

Arya slumped in her chair and Gendry instinctively put a hand on her shoulder.

“Well fuck.”

[areiton]

perfectly imperfect

READ ON A03 

The stench of sadness and confusion coming from Stiles makes his stomach heave.

He wants to pull the boy close, and soothe away the stitch between his brows, ease the tightness in his shoulders. But he doesn't. He let’s the sadness seep into his pores, lets the confusion blossom, and when he slips out, alone in the midst of the pack, Stiles doesn’t stop him.

~*~

Stiles is--

Stiles is perfectly imperfect and deeply flawed, morally ambiguous and profoundly loyal, fragile human skin wrapped around the soul of a wolf, unflinchingly brave and stupidly reckless. He runs with wolves, and Peter thinks he is the bravest and best, the only one in the damn pack worth a damn.

He’s the one who kept them alive, the one who figured out what was trying to kill them, and in the rare moments when they were safe--he was the one who demanded they be more. More than strangers thrown together, more than soldiers in the same war. More than faces in a hall and companions on a full moon.

Stiles forced them to be pack, dragged Peter into their midst and glared until they accepted his presence, yelled at Derek and Scott and Peter until they finally could stand to be around each other, and even then, Peter thinks it was more to appease the boy than anything else.

He was human and fragile and imperfect, and when Peter watched him--Peter watched him far too much--he saw the perfect wolf he would be, the strength hidden in him, the alpha he would make, and he wanted.

~*~

Stiles smells like rain and sweat, like chocolate cookies and, often, like burnt sugar, a sticky sweet arousal that deepened when he pressed near Peter, leaning over old tomes.

Derek watches it with worry but Peter never turns into that arousal, never answers Stiles’ clumsy flirting.

He showers the boy with affection and gifts, gives him more than he gives any of the ragtag group he calls pack, offers his food when the boy is too distracted to get his own--he provides and preens under Stiles’ sweet smile--but he never pursues.

He frames it all in friendship, in gratitude, in pack.

It doesn’t fool Derek, and it doesn’t fool Peter.

Hell, it probably doesn’t fool Stiles. But for now, it is enough.

~*~

He spends time with Peter, and that is harder.

After the fire, after his death and watching Scott use Derek, watching Derek’s betas run--there is a strong survival instinct that says, protect yourself.

His den is his, a safe, cozy apartment in downtown Beacon Hills, a small expensive thing that carries his scent in every line and cushion, and none of the pack knows where it is.

None but Stiles.

Stiles who showed up one night after a fight, shoved inside while Peter bled on his floor, and carefully put him back together before he made tea and grilled cheese and tucked them both into blankets on the couch to let Peter heal.

He never asked if Peter wanted him there, just waltzed in, completely sure of his welcome, and now, months later, his scent soaks the couch and the kitchen, his pillows and blankets and clothes that Stiles is shameless in stealing, and Peter can inhale him, the rich scent of his boy on his sheets, sweet and warm and inviting, as he fucks his fist and aches for the one he wants.

~*~

He knows.

Stiles isn’t subtle. He watches Peter, his mouth open, his scent swollen with arousal, his hands twitching.

He presses close, and leans into Peter’s warmth, makes a tiny noise of discontent, when Peter moves away.

He reaches for Peter, first, always, after a fight, before  he remembers his brother and his alpha and his gaze flicks to them, but still his hands are steadying on Peter.

He finds reasons to be close, to research and patrol with Peter, to spar with the still recovering beta, to never stray too far.

And Peter knows.

He knows that Stiles is infatuated, that he thinks patience and a long game will win Peter’s heart. He comes to pack meetings with food he snaps at the betas for sniffing, and preens when Peter enjoys. He comes to the apartment, smell of arousal and sated pleasure and come, and meets Peter’s eyes, cocky and sure. He offers gifts and endless messages and dry wit and snarky arguments and Peter knows.  

Peter knows, and he thinks if Stiles knew his own heart, the boy would have shoved him into bed, months ago, and he would have been helpless to stop it.

No matter how much he should. He would have been helpless to stop it.

~*~

“You turned him down,” Derek says and Peter’s shoulders tighten.

“How very perceptive, nephew. Did you struggle, coming to that particular conclusion?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Derek snaps, and he comes to stand in front of his uncle. “Why?”

“Be more specific,” Peter drawls and Derek snarls, sharp and wet, his eyes flaring red. Peter smirks and finishes his coffee.

“Why? You hurt him.”

He knows. He knows and it is driving him mad, that knowledge, the wolf in him snarling to get free, to go to the boy, to wipe away the sadness and kiss his red bitten lips and tell him yes, yes yes, Stiles, anything, yes.

He takes a breath. “He deserves better than me,” Peter says, the first, only, last selfless thing he will ever say.

Being selfless, he has decided, is the fucking worst.

“Doesn’t he get to decide that?” Derek asks.

“No,” Peter says. “He decided on me, and I--I won’t let him throw himself away on a creature like myself.”

Derek stares at him, and he feels it, suddenly, the lurch in the air, and the rapid pounding heartbeat, and he remembers the spell Stiles found, to silence his heartbeat and mute his scent.

Tricky little bastard.

Derek smirks at him, and leans in as he listens to the clatter of feet on the spiral stairs. “Don’t you dare hurt him.”

Peter can’t answer, because Stiles is there, standing in front of him, wide eyed, his cheeks stained red, and he looks as hopeful as he does furious.

“You self-sacrificial ass,” Stiles snarls and Peter lifts an eyebrow.

“That’s certainly never been an accusation leveled at me.”

“Stop,” Stiles snaps. “Just stop.”

And he does. He does because he is tired.

~*~

He fell in love with a boy, defiant and terrified, leaning over a bleeding girl on a muddy field, heart pounding too fast, scent thick with fear and still snarling.

He fell in love with a boy, terrified and sassy, in a empty parking garage, rejecting a gift that he wanted, sour with fear and want and confusion, and still fighting.

He fell in love with a boy, wide eyed and pale, a burning bottle in his hand and determination in his eyes, sorrow mixing with resolution as he threw the bomb, sick and still determined.

He fell in love with a boy, bruised and bloody in a warehouse, tears on his pale skin, reeking of pain and fear and blood, hands trembling and lies on his tongue, and still standing.

He fell in love with a boy, furious and determined, forcing them to be pack, fighting to keep them alive, outclassed and outmatched, and still here.

He fell in love.

With every bit of every dichotomy that is Stiles, he fell in love.

And he fought it, every goddamn second of the way.

~*~

“Just--tell me why,” Stiles says, and it’s an order.

Even if it wasn’t, Peter would answer.

“Because you deserve better,” he says, simply. “If I lived a thousand lives, Stiles, I would still not be a fraction of what you deserve.”

He is selfish and cruel and egotistical and never in the habit of denying himself what he wants.

But Stiles--Stiles deserves so much more.

“You idiot,” Stiles breathes and the world falls away as he hauls Peter into a kiss that’s furious and sweet, razor sharp and pillow soft, a sexy nip of teeth and the gentle chaste chase of lips, his grip bruising, his fingers gentle, a perfect contradiction of everything he’s ever loved and wanted about this gorgeous boy.

“You are what I deserve, because you’re what I chose,” Stiles says, his voice savage and determined against Peter’s lips, and it doesn’t make sense.

It doesn’t make sense.

But Stiles, his brilliant beautiful human boy is glaring at him with all the strength of an alpha and his lips are wet against Peter’s and Peter--

Peter nods and kisses his boy again.

~*~

Stiles may deserve more than Peter--nothing the boy will every say will change his mind about that.

But he is determined too, and as he watches Stiles wake, lips kiss swollen and skin love bruised, he determines to spend the rest of his life, being everything Stiles deserves--perfectly imperfect and his.