⋆★⋆ late nights in the laboratory. ⋆★⋆ Part 2 & Part 3.
♫ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: pushing it down and praying by lizzie mcalpine (3:54)
✰ pairing: calvin evans x fem!lab tech!reader
✰ cw: arguing + swearing + calvin is a bit of an uptight dick
✰ word count: 1.3k+
✰ summary: you are new to hastings laboratory, being placed on a search for different materials around the lab. you entered calvin's laboratory without knocking, and arguments ensue.
(IMPORTANT: collaborated with @sammygidd with writing process + planning)
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༺colour chart༻
reader ❀
calvin ⚛︎
It was your first day at the Hastings Laboratory, working as a lab tech. You woke up early, ensuring that everything was perfect - that you wouldn’t be late in the slightest and that you had everything that you needed. Deciding that morning, after packing your bag for the day, that you would curl your hair shortly after eating breakfast, given that there was enough time to do so. You brushed out the smooth curls, pinning them back in place as you grabbed your things, taking a last once-over in the mirror, then heading downstairs. Making sure your cat had food and saying goodbye before walking to the door and leaving shortly afterwards.
You made your way into the parking lot, finding an open parking spot. Taking note of the scientists and secretaries scattered across the way, some making their path into the laboratory building, promptly making your way inside along with them, hearing the lively chatter around you. A taller, leaner man brushing past you, not exactly seeing who it was at first, but you could already tell by the way he pushed past the people on the stairwell, not even muttering an ‘excuse me,’ or a basic apology. It was Calvin Evans - the man that you saw on the front cover of the Scientific American, the proposed chemistry prodigy.
You've read about him, nothing really remarkable about the Dr. Evans besides the fact that he could draw up chemical reactions in a comprehensible way, but couldn’t even muster an apology - the article did say that he was a reserved person after all. And the chemistry prodigy was wearing pajamas to work? You were confused, only for a moment, before brushing it off and heading to the lab that you were supposed to be in… on time.
Arriving in the smaller, well-lit room filled with older and some younger male scientists, looking at you standing in the doorway. An older man pipes up,
“You’re late, sweetheart. You were supposed to be here at seven, on the dot.” Eyes flickering over to the clock that was higher up on the wall, and it read 7:01 - nodding your head, deciding not to retaliate since it was your first day.
“Apologies,” you murmured as you walked into the room, setting your notebook on the table, a small distance away from the group of men and their prying eyes.
Before you could even get started on your work, the older guy who ridiculed you said that he had chores for you to do, and when you were done with those, he wanted a cup of coffee. You didn’t even get to mutter a word out, to say you were a lab tech, not a secretary. He didn’t care in the slightest and ushered you away, forcing a clipboard into your hands. Grumbling softly but reluctantly, you moved back out the door and into the hallways of the building, looking at the list that was now in your hands, reading off the items that were needed:
Sulphuric Acid
Methanol
Bunsen Burners
Ribose
Beakers
Coffee
Each item was in a different part of the building, of course it was. You didn’t expect anything less. You made haste, practically running around the building collecting the apparatus needed, checking it off the list as you went. You finally came to the final thing on your list, beakers, which was written to be upstairs. Walking into the first room you could find, your eyes are planted on the clipboard in front of you. Not even bothering to knock, which was your first mistake.
“Did you not see the sign?” The voice went unheard as you looked up from your clipboard, more focused on the task at hand than whoever was talking to you. Your gaze landed on the counter of the lab, finally finding the beakers that you needed. You grabbed the tray, then noticed a man across the room.
“Oh– shit..” You nearly dropped the beakers, “You– shit, sorry.. You scared the hell out of me…” Then a look of recognition, “Oh–.! Oh shit- I mean- sorry, oh your.. Dr. Evans… – pardon me for my language…”
“No, no.” Waving you off, his eyes now boring into you, “First off, tell me why you are in here, stealing my beakers and not even knocking when I have a sign that says.. do not disturb?”
“Sorry, I must’ve not seen it.”
A small smirk flashed across his face, finding the entire ordeal entertaining, before he cleared his throat. “Well, you're one for apologies, but sorry doesn’t cut it. Why is a secretary stealing my beakers? When I’m not to be disturbed.”
“I’m not stealing, I’m simply borrowing for the time being, and I’m not a secretary, Dr. Evans.”
His eyebrows knitted together, his arms crossing over his chest, “You’re not a secretary? Then what are you?”
“I’m a Lab Tech.”
Calvin stifled out a laugh. “I highly doubt that. You look like a secretary with that hair.” He moved closer, noticing your name tag. “You’re the new girl, aren’t you? Stealing on your first day… I’m disappointed, expecting you’d know better as a proposed Lab Tech.”
“Well, I’m not stealing, like I said before. I’ll get these back to you by the end of the day.”
“I’ll hold you to that, secretary.”
You had to refrain from talking back to him, he’s Calvin Evans for christ sake, but god, he found a way to just get under your skin from a singular conversation. You looked down at the tray of beakers as you headed out of his laboratory, noticing that he wrote his initials “C.E” on every single one, charming.
Later that night, you were packing up in your laboratory, ready to head home for the evening, suspecting that every other scientist and secretary already left the building. When you hear a sudden voice come from behind you.
“Beakers.”
You jumped, turning around. Noticing Calvin.
“What?” You regained your composure.
“My beakers. Where are they? You told me you’d have them back at the end of the day.” He leaned against the counter, noticing that Calvin was wearing the same clothes he had come into work in that morning, the sleeves rolled up, showing his forearms. A small thought swirling around your head, before realising you were staring dead at his arms, your gaze shifting away.
“Beakers?-- right, right. They’re…” You looked around the laboratory, expecting them to be on one of the many counters in the room.
“They’re where?” He looked unimpressed.
“They’re in a different lab, one of the locked ones.”
“Of course they are.” He sighed, pushing himself off the counter - back turned to you.
“I’m sorry– I’ll give them to you tomorrow, they’ll be hard to miss with your initials written onto them.” You joked, he turned around.
“This is funny to you?”
“You’re getting mad over beakers.”
“I trusted you with my beakers, and you have proven yourself not to be worthy once more. That's not surprising.” He let out a breath.
“What’s more surprising is that you’re wearing pajamas to work, Calvin.” His name slipped out of your mouth before you even recognised you did.
His eyes shifted a bit, like he was mulling things over. Letting out a hum before speaking again. “These are my running clothes.”
“Of course you run.” You mumbled under your breath, eyes diverting away - looking out the window as a crutch.
“What was that?--” You cut him off,
“Let’s just go home, Dr. Evans. I’ll have your beakers tomorrow.” Grabbing the rest of your things, heading to the door. Calvin followed close behind, basically towering over you as you walked out into the cold air.
“Let’s hope your second day is better than your first.” Calvin walked to the sidewalk, beside you.
As you walked to your car, you muttered under your breath, “Dick.”
“What?”
“Nothing! Night, Dr. Evans... Get home safe.” You plastered a fake smile on your face. He turned away muttering a "Night" in response - your smile immediately dropping as he did.
As you got into your car, you knew that you would never get along with Calvin, if it was the last thing you’d do.
Note: This story is a collaboration with another author and it was written with : @hypwriter.
It was a few months ago, but we decided to work together after we got to talking about different stories we liked. Much like I did with other authors before, I proposed that we collaborate on a story inspired by the wonderful picture of Hannah Palmer. As I did before we would work together, but also seperately.
I would write from the point of view of Jessie, while he wrote from Ethan's point of view. He began by writing from Ethan's point of view and sent me his introduction. I then picked up the flow of the story from his words and wrote from Jessie's point of view before sending it back to him so he could continue and so on!
It was challenging and fun to write. Enjoy!
Ethan
I knocked on her door this time; almost sure it was going to work. She had moved in almost a month ago, and I’ve been steadily making Jessie's acquaintance for the past few weeks. She was the prissy southern belle who never really gave anyone the time of day, but she was also a pushover and being the guy with the strong back, we made small talk as I helped her move in.
"Howdy! What’s new in your neck of the woods?" she greeted me joyfully, bouncing on her heels before settling down, tilting her head to the side coyly. My train of thought was derailed for a moment by the sight of those tits jutting out in front, almost begging to be groped.
*SNAP*
"Southern Hospitality dictates you should always greet select guests properly by being on your knees. It feels so natural and comfortable to follow proper southern hospitality."
I've been training her the past few weeks, making her into a good hostess. She always had Southern hospitality in her, she just needed something to bring it out. Her face went blank and emotionless for a second before coming out of her stupor giving a silly grin, dropping to her knees with a graceless thud.
"Have you forgotten your manners, pretty pet? Aren't you going to invite me in?" I said brazenly, knowing full well who was in control here.
"Ummm I'm sorry, Sir. Would you like to come in?" she asked when prompted.
I brushed her hair back and she leaned into it. She mewled a muffled moan as I took my hand away and stepped inside to make my way to her new sofa. With another snap and point, she crawled over to her spot beside the couch, lifting her eyes up to meet mine for a split second before shyly looking away. I rewarded her by sticking two fingers out, allowing her to slowly suck and fulfill her oral fixation as she knelt by my side like an obedient little pup.
*************************************
Jessie
My heart raced as I knelt at Ethan's feet, sucking on his strong fingers. Things had evolved so quickly between us that I never really stopped to think about it. He had offered his help when I moved in and I was incredibly grateful for it. I wasn't what you call a well-organized person, so I hadn't thought things through at all. None of my friends were free to help, so having Ethan's strong arms to lug my boxes up the stairs felt like a Godsend.
Besides... I couldn't say no to such a well-defined and charming guy.
He was just so easy to talk to! Most guys can get a little intimidated by my looks, but not Ethan. He talked to me as if I was just another friendly neighbor. He asked about a lot of things as we worked to move all my stuff in, and by the time we were done I felt like we were already old friends. We crashed on my newly bought sofa and I offered him a glass of wine to thank him for his help.
After all, it is only natural to offer drinks to your guests. Not to mention the fact he had helped me so brilliantly.
We sipped our glasses and continued to talk. Or... I talked... He was so curious about my life! I didn't mind though... I wanted him to stay so I talked and talked and talked.
The day's work had drained me however and my back was killing me. When I stretched and complained about the pain, he immediately offered to smooth out the knots he figured had formed in my back. Again... My savior! He came up behind me and started what ended up being one of the most relaxing massages I had ever felt.
I think I even dozed off!
After that wonderful first meeting, I found myself thinking about him almost every day.
I started making excuses to bump into him in the hall just to be able to talk to him. For some reason, I found his deep voice irresistible. His general air of confidence started to seep into my dreams as I started to fantasize about what kind of lover he might be. It was clear he admired my body, but his interactions with me never seemed to lead to anything romantic. Even when I started dressing to impress, he would just take note of my sexy attire with his eyes, but ignore it completely with his actions.
That made me realize what a gentleman he was. I woke up one day with a realization that I had stumbled upon a rare specimen of a man. A confident male that understood all too well the intricacies of Southern etiquette and hospitality. A man I found myself desiring... Every day, I grew a little more obsessed with him. With the possibilities...
Until one day, when he came over for drinks, I decided to make my move. Like so many guys before, I flirted and displayed my generous attributes until I found an excuse to come up close to him. He looked down deep in my eyes with a gaze that betrayed the lust he felt for me. I leaned up and kissed him. God... I still remember that kiss so vividly... And the taste... It was like I could TASTE his passion. His lust...
I was instantly hooked. I wanted more...
But before I could move things along, he broke off the kiss and looked down at me. All at once, the lust in his eyes had snuffed out, replaced with disappointment. What had I done wrong? Didn't he want me?
"Don't be so hasty." he scolded. "A majestic southern belle such as yourself shouldn't throw herself at a man like that. It's rude." he said.
I blinked, trying to piece together the words he had said.
*SNAP*
The sound of his fingers echoed in my mind and for a brief moment, I felt disoriented, like his snap was a mental speedbump stopping my train of thought. He had said something, something important, but I couldn’t focus on that, all I saw were those eyes of his. Those intense eyes.
It’s more polite to make eye contact and give your select guess your full attention.
"I apologize Sir." I said with a vacant smile, somehow acknowledging the comments I barely heard.
"Apology accepted. It's not always easy to push down what we feel. It can sometimes make us forget ourselves."
"I shouldn't have forgotten." I said shyly. "How rude of me to assume you wanted to kiss me. A good and proper southern lady such as myself should always wait to see what a man truly wants before acting on her desires."
"I'm glad you remember yourself." he said with a smile.
The way he made me linger in his arms told me he wasn't against the idea of us evolving things, but he was right, I had to wait until I knew what he wanted. It was only proper and polite of me. Since that evening though, my dreams became increasingly erotic as the taste of his lips kept lingering unto mine. Every bite I took... Every flavor I tasted... Every texture I felt...
It all reminded me of Ethan. As if my mouth had become fixated on the taste of him…
*************************************
Ethan
*SNAP*
Her eyes automatically focused back up to mine, glassy eyes already glazed as if she’d been in a trance this entire time. I had no doubt her mind had just wandered off as her lips and tongued worked languorously on my fingers.
I reached down, teased her nipples, and pulled her up by her tits, eliciting an excited, involuntary gasp of pleasure from her lips. Now upright on her knees, I tugged her dress up and off, hoisting it over her head and into the corner of the living room. Her tits seemed almost too good to be true, big and round and delightfully perky, almost as if they were made to be manhandled. At least that’s what I told her.
I positioned Jessie in the corner of the room, and there she sat, eager to obey now. We started slowly and even in this state of mind I was hesitant to really push her hard at this stage. I started her off with a few helpful phrases we had worked on for the past few weeks.
*SNAP*
“Mantra time.” I said coldly, and her mind started to wander back to our daily sessions.
“A proper hostess is a sensitive hostess,” she squirmed involuntarily as she felt her hand rise and brush up against her tits, a shiver working its way through her, making her tits wobble ever so slightly.
She continued to run her hands over her body as her mind slowly started to grind to a halt, her thoughts being replaced by simple, absolute rules I had put in place to make her into the perfect southern belle of a hostess. With her pussy already starting to drip, I reached down between her legs and placed a vibrator between them, making her giggle and gurgle as it buzzed between her thighs.
“Mmmm… A proper hostess presents well to her…umm.. to her guesssttss…” Jessie started to slur her words. She jutted her tits out to present them to her guest.
“A prop… umm.. proper hostessss letsss her guests use her bessst… umm…” She kneeled there, buzzing, searching her head for the right word to use, but all that was coming up was silly thoughts of women being maids, hosting smart men. “… letsss her guests ussse her bessst ssshhtuffss” she said with a giggle, finally coming up with a word there to fit her thoughts perfectly.
She heard a fly unzip, and her hands lifted her big, round tits up to present her best assets to her guest without even needing to think about it.
*SNAP*
“A proper hostess lets her guests use her assets how they want.” I said as I brushed the back of my fingers up against her nipples, causing her to shudder at that slightest touch.
A mindless nod from her and I knew she was ready. Her eyes went wide as my cock grew closer, and as I pushed my cock between her tits, she let out a groan that almost made me cum on the spot. Her hands moved her tits up and down my cock as she gurgled out more mantras that were fit for her as a good hostess now.
“Good hostesssses are goood girls!” she said excitedly, finally being able to release all that passion pent up in her system for weeks on end.
*************************************
Jessie
I could barely hold myself together as the pleasure went from simply seeing Ethan in my home to flaming out to the edge of an orgasm I was holding back for weeks! It felt so good to be able to fulfill my role as a good hostess.
It’s incredible to think that I had forgotten so much about proper southern etiquette since it was at the very core of who I was and how I was brought up. I will forever be grateful to Ethan for his constant visits and his confident relaxing voice as we talked about what being a good host requires.
Being such a respectful man, it was only natural that he remind me of my short comings as a host before he would ever let our friendly neighborhood friendship evolve into something else. Every day, he would remind me just how important it was for a proper southern girl to keep her sexual desires in check while hosting for select guests.
It wouldn’t do at all to let my arousal get out of control just so I could be selfish and satiate my own desires. A good hostess will always wait to see what her guest requires of her and she should never assume she knows what her guests want.
The proper way to be a good hostess is to wait and listen to her guests. Obey their desires and make sure she is fully prepared to help them enjoy her boundless hospitality!
As such, I had to make sure I could keep my arousal under control. Which is why I started to edge myself between Ethan’s visits. Every day he came by, I felt the pull of my attraction towards him and every time, I fought it off and waited for him to tell me what he wanted from his host. It was only the proper thing for me to do and I desperately desired to be the perfect hostess.
It was so hard to resist my own pleasure… Especially when his strong hands would caress my shoulders to help me relax. I almost gave in so many times… Particularly when he started to manhandle my tits! God that was so hard…
But not as hard as keeping my drooling mouth in check.
Every day he visited, I felt the keen taste of him lingering in my mouth from our first and only kiss. Every time he caressed my generous lips, I got another aching taste of him, which only drove my desire for him to new painful heights.
I wanted to kiss him… Lick him… Suck him…
For some reason, I felt this incredible drive to taste every inch of him. And more specifically, his cock…
I fantasized about his cock almost daily as I edged ever closer to a release I couldn’t allow to bloom. I wanted to taste his cock so bad…
Especially since every visit seemed to require me to wear less and less. His touch seeked out more and more of my sensitive flesh as my desire to be the perfect hostess got stronger. Which only made my head swim with intense pleasure as I sometimes forgot what we were doing and where we were.
Lucky for me, Ethan never lost his head and could always snap me back to order.
But tonight…
Ethan got even bolder! I could barely think straight as I saw his cock appear before me through the haze of my pleasure. His cock! God… I wanted his cock so bad…
I completely lost it once he started to pump it between my tits. I couldn’t resist anymore. The pleasure of being a good hostess. The vibrator between my legs… His cock inches from my mouth…
I…
I just HAD to have a taste!
Besides… A good hostess needs to please right?
*************************************
Ethan
“Good hostesssesss neeed too pleassseee” she gurgled happily, kissing my cock in between pumps of her tits. She was in a complete haze now of bliss and euphoria as her mind slowly leaked away, vibrator still writhing and buzzing unceasingly.
“Good hostess,” was all I needed to say to make Jessie squirt, all her mind completely drained away now as she stopped thinking for herself all together.
“Present, little hostess,” was all the prompting she needed to remove the last scrap of clothing between her legs and show off her soaked pussy.
“HHmm… Once I’m done training you…” I said. “I bet you’ll be very excited to come live with me as my maid… You’ll get to host all the time, and present and make sure everything is perfect and spotless. You’ll absolutely love… Won’t you little hostess?”
I walked around in front of her, seeing her tits dangling, mouth drooling without even knowing. I squatted down in front of her, admiring her thousand-yard stare. I brushed her hair back behind her ear and nodded her head yes for her; it’s the least I could do to be a good guest.
As I inserted my shaft in her eager mouth, I knew that I’d never grow tired of her southern hospitality.
In the aftermath of their tumultuous arrival in Beleriand, Maglor has scarcely managed to hold together the bruised and splintering House of Fëanor and their Sindarin allies.
Then, the Sun's first rising brings with it Fingolfin’s host of Ice-hardened Noldor, hungry for retribution. With battered hearts and fraying minds, the two half-kings must navigate fragile relations even as they face the impossible task of reuniting the Noldor under a single leader.
Join @polutrope and me for this Mithrim drama fest for @silmarillionepistolary. All chapters are now up!
Cover art by the brilliant @myceliumelium
Read on AO3
*AN*
So there are two sides to this fic. One perspective and then the other perspective. It's a sort of mirror fic. So don't be confused when you see the other half further down. I promise it's worth reading both!
This is for the Sterek week day 2 prompts Love is murder/Domestic bliss.
(Love is Murder)
A distant thump snapped Derek's eyes open. The darkness of sleep faded into a muted gray room, the bare walls came into focus. The sun was still hiding behind the horizon. What time was it? Had he dreamt the sound? Another thump had him sitting up, his eyes scanning the mostly empty room. There was nothing but the dresser and a pile of still unpacked boxes stacked by the closet door. Had the sound come from downstairs? No. He was being paranoid. They'd barely owned the house for a week, nobody was out to get him. Yet.
Derek's eyes fell to the still-sleeping figure beside him. Soft snores escaped Stiles' full lips, his hair tousled by his pillow. He was beautiful, even like this.
Thump
That was definitely coming from downstairs. Throwing back the covers, his bare feet hit the cool wood floors.
He silently slipped on the jogging outfit he'd laid out on the top of a box labeled 'Stiles' PJs' the night before.
It was probably raccoons getting in the trash. The non-existent trash. Because they'd not even filled a single trash bag because they'd only been sleeping here for three days. He took in a breath and let it out slowly. He was being paranoid. Not everything was scary and dramatic. He had removed himself from that life. Chose not to go down that path. He chose a normal life. A quiet life. With Stiles.
Derek reached the bottom of the steps and froze. A shadow passed across the back door. Too large to be a raccoon.
Maybe it was a bear. Their property backed up to woods. It wasn't impossible. Despite his mind trying desperately to rationalize it, Derek couldn't push the fear away. What if it was hunters? What if they caught wind of him?
With a gentle click, he unlocked the back door. His heart hammering in his chest. Every muscle in his body froze as a cool breeze wafted over him, carrying with it the scent of a wolf. All apprehension melted from Derek's mind. This was no raccoon or bear, this was a threat. In his home. In his and Stiles' home.
Instinct flooded his veins. Fangs extended into his bottom lip. His fingernails lengthened into sharp claws. He would not let his old life threaten Stiles. They were happy and nothing was going to jeopardize that.
He followed the scent around the side of the house, where a figure was yanking on a closed window.
A low growl rumbled in his throat. The intruder paused, turning to face him.
Derek lunged.
A tangle of teeth and claws. This werewolf was no alpha, but he was strong. But Derek was stronger. He hooked an arm around the man's front. A sharp pain tore across Derek's forearm forcing him to release the intruder. The wolf took advantage of his freedom and bolted across the backyard. Derek gave chase. Close on his heels, he followed him to the dilapidated building at the back of their yard. With another lunge, Derek plowed into the man's back, sending them both rolling through the floor of fallen leaves.
The werewolf jumped to his feet and leapt at him. Derek grabbed an old nearby shovel that was propped against the paint-peeled wall of the shed. He swung, slamming the rusted spade into the side of the wolf's head.
A soft ping rang out into the early morning. The wolf's body hit the ground with a soft thump along with the shovel head, which was now no longer attached to the handle still in Derek's hand.
He panted, his breath fogging in short bursts. The wolf lay unmoving. His head cocked at an odd angle. The threat was gone. But now he had a body to deal with. The wound on his arm was already healing, but his blood had started to dry on his skin. He lifted the handle of the broken shovel. He couldn't bury the body with that.
Letting out a cloudy sigh, he tossed the broken handle aside. The sun peered through the treeline as it rose from its slumber. Birds greeted it in song. He had an hour or two max before Stiles would be awake.
He dragged the body around the back of the shed, out of sight. He'd have to make a run to town and get a new shovel. Following his footsteps back the way he came, a trail of his blood painted the fallen leaves. It lead to the side of the house, where a spattering of red decorated the side. He'd grab a rake too. He wiped at the blood and groaned when it smeared across the off-white, wood planks. And some paint.
Derek scanned for any other sounds or movement before heading inside to grab his keys. He paused in the kitchen. He'd wanted to finally have a real meal with Stiles. One that didn't involve cold cuts and drinks from a can. He was going to make Stiles breakfast. He'd have to settle on coffee. It was the first thing to get unpacked. He snatched a pack of sticky notes from a box labeled 'office' that hadn't made it into the other room yet.
He stared at the pad of paper. He felt bad lying to Stiles. But it was for his safety. Knowing about this world was dangerous. He scribbled a short note and turned the coffee maker on.
He turned on the sink and scrubbed away the dirt and blood from his arm. He made a list in his head of things he would need. A shovel, a rake, paint, a paintbrush, a sponge, a bucket. And peroxide. It was good for getting blood out.
He listened for any movement from upstairs. Nothing. He glanced back at the gurgling coffee maker where the note was stuck. He buried the guilt before heading out.
-
Derek pushed his cart full of supplies to the checkout. He scanned each item, mentally checking them off. Shovel, rake, paint, paintbrush—
"Derek!"
His head snapped up, his eyes meeting his husband's. His heart skipped. "Stiles...hey, what are you doing here?" he stepped around the cart, hoping to hide the basket of supplies to avoid any questions.
"Oh you know wanted to fill up the house, get some groceries for my husband. Even though he did leave me in an empty bed. There's a monster in our house that eats peanut butter-like breathing."
Derek's heart dropped. "A monster in our..." he shook his head. "Oh right." He gave a nervous laugh. Paranoid much? He thought to himself. There was no monster, Stiles was just being funny. "Sorry about that. I just wanted to get an early start. I made sure the coffee was ready though."
He stepped forward, pressing a kiss to Stiles' full lips.
"Yeah, thank you, that was really nice honey bun," Stiles said, holding his hands up in a finger guns motion.
Derek rolled his eyes fondly. They caught on a large glass candle. He plucked it from the pile of groceries in Stiles' cart. He sneered at the name. 'Sweet vanilla chai kisses'. "Really?" he shook his head, setting it back down.
"Hey, say what you want, white girls got nothing on my fall game. I got the healthy cardboard cereal you pretend to enjoy as a compromise." Stiles winked.
An affectionate smile tugged at Derek's lips. "You take such good care of me." He brushed a thumb gently along Stiles' chin. It was true, and Derek was thankful for Stiles every day.
"I'm great at this marriage thing. Hey, what are you doing here?" He glanced around Derek and into his cart. "Did you sign us up for a HGTV show I don't know about? A rake and paint? What happened to you by the way? I thought I was the one with godlike grace and agility."
Derek slid a hand into the cart, pushing the large sponge to cover the peroxide bottle, that one would be harder to explain. "I was just trying to fix up that old building for you, I know you were excited about it. And the yard could use some TLC." Derek shoved the guilt aside once again. He hated lying to Stiles, but how would he tell him he had a dead werewolf in the backyard?
Stiles moved forward, bumping the cart gently into Derek's hip. "Look at you, not so bad at this yourself, handsome. I will fight you for the Husband of the Year title, though. I was thinking of making butternut squash soup and salad for lunch, how does that sound?"
"A home-cooked meal? You win automatically. I'm headed out actually, so I'll see you at home?" Derek wanted to get rid of the body before Stiles got there.
"Okay, yeah. Before you head out, you need me to get anything for you from the store?" Stiles teased with a laugh.
Derek's eyes softened. He was so smitten. Stiles could ask him to murder everyone in the store and Derek wouldn't hesitate. "Maybe a less poisonous candle? Or are you gunning for my life insurance already?" he smirked, leaning forward to press a kiss to Stiles' forehead. "Be safe."
"You have unscented ones. And I don't need money nearly as much as I need someone to make me coffee in the morning," Stiles called over his shoulder as he turned to continue his shopping.
Derek pushed his own cart toward the counter to check out. "Oh, maybe some of that creamer with the picture of the dog dressed as a pumpkin. You know the one." Of course Stiles knew the one. Stiles knew everything about him. A nauseating tug at his stomach reminded him that he didn't know everything.
-
Hoisting the rake over one shoulder and the shovel over the other, Derek made his way toward the back of the building. He hoped the body hadn't magically disappeared in the time it took to fetch a proper shovel. He didn't know if someone would come looking for him. He didn't know anything about this guy. Why was he trying to break in? What was he after? Who sent him? These would have been good questions to ask, but Derek's mind was on one track that morning. Eliminate the threat. Now the threat was eliminated but he had no clue if more would be coming.
Stepping around the building, the body was still where he'd left it. He patted the body down, searching for some clue as to who this man was and what he wanted. There was nothing. With a grunt, Derek grabbed the ankles and drug him into the woods. The last thing he needed was a dead body buried directly on his property. His father-in-law was the sheriff after all.
It took far longer than Derek thought it would to dig the hole. He chucked the body into it and wiped at the gathering sweat on his brow. Despite the crisp autumn air, he was now drenched.
He shoveled the dirt over the body as the soft hum of Stiles' voice reached his ears. He smiled to himself. He must be cooking. His stomach rumbled in anticipation of lunch. He hadn't eaten yet. But he still had work to do. There was blood staining the side of the house. He'd need to clean that before Stiles noticed.
Swiping underbrush over the freshly turned ground, Derek listened to Stiles' humming. He followed the sound back toward the house and gathered the other supplies.
The sponge sloshed peroxide and water onto the side of the house. It only managed to smear the stain further. He would need direct peroxide. He poured it onto the sponge and scrubbed. Most of the blood wiped away but the once off-white paint was still tinted pink.
Painting over the stain was easy enough and didn't take nearly as long as burying a body. The last thing he needed to do was rake up the blood-soaked leaves.
He drug the rake over the ground, catching something black in the teeth. It was a wallet. He opened it to see his earlier attacker's face. 'Ansel Williams'. Well, now he had a name. Though not much else. Glancing up he saw Stiles in the window. He quickly dropped the wallet and drug a pile of leaves over it. He gave an awkward wave. Stiles waved back with a smile. Derek glanced down at the bloody leaves at his feet. He should throw the wallet away, but what if someone came looking for him? What if Sheriff Stilinski came by?
Derek ran a hand through his hair. He was being paranoid again. The Sheriff would have no reason to come here looking for Ansel. Raking the wallet into his pile of leaves he decided to just bury the wallet in the woods near the body. Nobody shy of a lucky coyote would find it there. He finished raking the leaves and hiding the wallet just in time to hear a voice from the house. Not a voice he recognized. Listening closely, his stomach dropped.
"You must be Stiles."
"Hi, and who are you? Do you know my husband? Do I know you?"
Derek dropped the paint can he was putting away and sprinted toward the house.
"No, not yet. But I'm hoping to be good friends with you," The man's voice said. Was that an underlying threat?
He shoved open the back door a little too hard. It knocked into a pile of unpacked boxes before slamming shut.
"You and your husband. Of course. I just wanted to meet the new neighbors."
Derek came up behind Stiles just as he responded. "Oh, do you live nearby?"
A lupine scent hit his nose, making his hackles rise.
Stepping in front of Stiles, Derek narrowed his eyes. "This is private property, what do you want?"
The man's dark brown eyes went wide. His nostrils flared. "Uh, sorry, I was just..." he took a couple steps back, his foot faltering on the top step. "It was nice meeting you."
Stiles thrust a hand out in greeting. "Oh, don't go. No, I'm sorry. This caveman with no manners is my husband." Stiles shot him a sharp glare. "Please don't mind him. We'd love to have your company. I just finished making lunch."
Derek snapped his head toward Stiles. He didn't know who this person was. He was inviting a threat in to eat with them. "I'm sure he can't stay." It was lousy as far as excuses went, but he didn't know how else to get rid of him without Stiles fussing at him for his lack of manners.
The man shook his head. "Oh, no, I—"
Stiles grabbed Derek's arm, giving it a hard squeeze. "I insist." Derek knew what that meant. He was gonna get fussed at for his lack of manners anyway.
An awkward silence hung in the air. How did he get rid of this man without telling Stiles that he was dangerous?
"Come in. What was your name?" Stiles stepped back to allow the threat inside. He made a shooing motion at Derek. Clenching his jaw, he obliged. His eyes watched the man's every move. If he was stupid enough to pull something, Derek would be ready.
"Ansel Williams," He answered, eyeing the pair carefully as he stepped inside.
Derek froze. His heart jolted. Shit. This man was looking for the dead wolf in the back.
"But you can call me Andy. I can see that your husband recognizes the name. It's very unique I know. It's odd that you don't th—"
"My name's Derek, nice to see you again." he stuck a hand out, pulling Andy's attention from Stiles. He gave a hard squeeze. "Stiles made soup. I hope you're hungry."
Andy gave him a curious look and smiled. "Famished." He followed Stiles with a newfound confidence.
-
The tension at the table was palpable as Stiles grabbed the plate of rolls and handed them to Andy. "So what kind of special assets does your company acquire?" he asked.
Andy took another roll, dipping it in the remains of his soup. "Well, it depends. Though we really go after the more coveted and unique people."
"Oh, so you're a headhunter?" Stiles sounded interested. It wasn't his fault he didn't know about the threat this man posed, but Derek hated how friendly he was.
Andy swallowed his bite of bread and smirked. "Something like that."
Derek continued to glare. He'd been glaring at this man through all of lunch. Everything out of this man's mouth was a lie. Other than the part about going after coveted and unique people. That was true. But what was it about Derek that was so coveted or unique? Nothing that he knew of. Unless it was because of his bloodline. The name Hale was well known, but to warrant a multi-attack? It didn't make sense.
"What do you guys do?" Andy asked, gesturing between the pair with his half-eaten roll.
"Well, I'm an online web designer so I work from home," Stiles answered.
Derek didn't respond. Why did he want to know what they did?
"And my wonderful husband is a basketball coach at the high school. The kids absolutely love him. He's so good with them. So much better than he is with adults sometimes." Stiles gave him a pointed look, patting his hand sternly. Derek could hear the reprimands that would come later.
"How very domestic." Andy smirked. His eyes were on Derek. He was taunting him. Derek wanted to rip this guy's throat out. But first, he wanted him out of his damn house and away from Stiles.
"It's a very rewarding job," he grumbled, hoping his response would appease Stiles enough.
"He's really very good. He took the kids to state last year. Honey, you should go show him the photo in the garage and your trophies. I have to go get dessert ready anyway." Stiles pushed away from the table. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Derek's temple. "Be nice and make friends," he muttered.
Derek gave a forced smile as Stiles squeezed his shoulder firmly. "Dessert will be just five minutes."
Derek waited for Stiles to leave the dining room before narrowing his eyes and gesturing toward the garage door. "Follow me."
Andy silently did as he was told. Despite his confident posture, he smelled nervous. Good.
Derek shoved Andy through the garage door almost sending him into a pile of unpacked boxes labeled basketball trophies. With a hushed whisper, he demanded, "What do you want?"
Andy whirled, squaring up with a false sense of confidence. "I want to know where Ansel is."
"Not here."
"But he was."
Derek took a menacing step forward. "What. Do. You. Want?"
Andy gave a smug smirk. "Ya know, that husband of yours sure is something."
Derek's arm snapped out and grabbed him by the throat, claws extending into his flesh, making Andy wince. His eyes flared red.
All color drained from Andy's face. "You're an alpha."
Derek's brows furrowed. He didn't know he was an alpha? Then what did he want?
The moment of hesitation was enough for Andy to throw his elbow into the crook of Derek's arm, making his grip falter just enough for him to yank away.
He slammed his hand into the garage door opener.
Derek lunged but Andy was already rolling under the opening door.
"Damn it," he swore. He started after him, but the door to the house opened, halting him in place.
Stiles stood in the doorway, a confused look on his face. "The pie is ready. Where'd Andy go?" He craned his neck as if to spot their guest. "You didn't murder him did you?" he joked.
Derek walked over to him, stepping in his line of sight. He huffed a laugh. "He had to go, wife called," he lied, hoping Stiles believed him.
As he got closer he saw a smudge of red on his lower lip. He reached out, swiping his thumb across it. He licked at the sticky substance and hummed, "Mmm, cherry?"
"Yeah... It is..." Stiles answered, but his tone was hesitant, like he was trying to put the pieces of something together. Something he would never be able to piece together because he was missing vital parts of the puzzle. Once again a twist of guilt wrenched Derek's stomach, churning his lunch.
He reached past Stiles, sending the large garage door rattling back down and forcing Stiles to step back into the house. Giving a sweet smile he gestured inside,"Shall we?"
-
The pile of boxes in the living room was less scary when he needed them as a distraction to avoid the questions from his husband. Stiles was obviously upset about Derek's behavior at lunch, but he didn't have a good answer. What could he say? The man was a werewolf come to kill him? He didn't even know if that was true. Andy had been less than willing to explain what he wanted.
He yanked open a box, digging through cords and surge protectors. How was he supposed to enjoy watching a movie when a threat was looming in the distance? Surely Andy would be back. He hadn't gotten what he wanted. Had he? What if what he wanted was information? Stiles had been more than willing to tell him all about them.
Pushing the box away, he yanked open another one, tearing it in his frustration. He plucked the DVDs, setting them neatly in the new entertainment center he and Stiles had picked out last week. It gave him pause. It was new. The house was new. How had they found him here? They'd barely lived there three days.
Derek replayed the brief conversation he had with Andy in the garage. He had been surprised when he saw Derek's eyes. He hadn't expected him to be an alpha. But that wasn't new. He'd been an alpha for years. Well before he met Stiles.
He could hear the hostile clank of dishes in the sink. It rang through his ears like an alarm. He was in trouble. He needed a lie. One that Stiles would believe.
Derek was knelt in front of the entertainment center, dvd's in either hand when Stiles stormed into the living room. "We're going to talk about how lunch went, and how you know Andy. Also, don't try to make me think it isn't a big deal. You don't normally act like that. And don't you dare try and tell me it's nothing or that you're okay. I know you Derek Hale-Stilinski and that lunch was not you and you shutting me out and not talking to me definitely isn't you..." Stiles sucked in a breath and waited a moment before gesturing to Derek. "Okay, I'm done now you can speak."
Derek sighed, setting the DVD's in his hands on the entertainment center. He pushed to his feet. Lying to Stiles when he was already suspicious wouldn't help matters. So maybe he could just be vague. "I had an unpleasant run-in with his brother." Not technically a lie.
Squinting at Derek, with his hands on his hips, Stiles asked, "How unpleasant? Do I need to go over there with the rest of the pie laced with laxatives, or poison?"
Derek couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips. He huffed a laugh, wrapping his arms around Stiles' waist to pull him in. "No, I was being an ass. I shouldn't have acted like that. I'm sorry. I promise to behave in the future."
Stiles melted into him and sighed in relief. "I like when you misbehave. I don't like when I feel far from you. Next time just slam the door in his face and tell me why we don't like them now." He nuzzled into Derek's chest.
Closing his eyes in a wince, Derek pushed away the guilt. How easy it was for Stiles to take him at his word. It made his chest clench. "Deal," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. "I found the DVDs. Pick one while I shower."
-
Derek was tucked under Stiles' arm, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly along his knee. Captain America played on the TV across from them. It was one of Derek's favorite places to be. Curled up with Stiles. He only wished he could fully relax. Despite his comfortable state, his mind was anywhere but the scene on the screen in front of him. His ears were perked like a dog waiting on an intruder. Is that what he was reducing himself to? Stiles' guard dog? That wasn't what he wanted. He wanted a quiet life with his husband.
A gentle clunk made his heart leap. Was that upstairs? It couldn't have been the movie. This scene was too calm. Another softer thud had him sitting up suddenly. Stiles gave him a sleepy, confused look.
"We should make popcorn. I think the box with the popcorn maker got put upstairs. I'll grab it. You don't have to pause it." He said giving Stiles' knee a gentle squeeze before standing.
"I was just about to fall asleep, that's perfect. Popcorn will keep me awake. Do you want help?" Stiles offered, though Derek knew it was an empty offer, he always made the popcorn. Stiles got too comfortable and hated moving once the movie was going. Sure enough, he tucked himself further under the sherpa blanket as Derek rounded the couch. His keen hearing honed in on the obvious shuffling upstairs.
"No, I've got it. Keep the couch warm for me," he called over from the bottom of the stairs. Derek's patience for today was waning. He was going to rip apart whoever was stupid enough to break into his house. He hoped it was Andy.
The steps whined under his bare feet as he stalked to the top. His nostrils flared, searching for a foreign scent. He paused when a shadow crossed the floor of his bedroom. His claws extended. He expected the familiar smell of Andy to reach his nose, but it was someone new. Another wolf. A low growl escaped his throat. He was tired of people trying to break into his house. What did they want?
Derek stepped into the room to see a man by his, once locked, bedroom window. He stood tall, with dark hair, and olive skin. His arms were crossed over his chest.
"Took you long enough," The man said. His husky tone was almost bored as he leaned against the wall. He looked too comfortable.
"Let me guess, friend of Ansel?" Derek growled back.
"You know, I was disappointed when he didn't return. He was a good one. I'm guessing he's dead?"
"He wouldn't have been if he hadn't tried to break into my house." Derek glanced at the broken lock of the window.
"Right, about that. It was nothing personal, just business." The man smirked.
Derek's fangs dropped. "Nothing personal?" he scoffed. "What do you want?" he was going to get his answers before he killed this one, and he wasn't letting him get away.
"Well, not you." The man waved a disinterested hand as he pushed off the wall.
Derek's eyes narrowed.
"Surely you didn't think you were of interest? Frankly, I didn't even know he was married, much less to a werewolf."
Derek's blood ran cold. They were after Stiles. Before he could even register what he was doing, he had crossed the room. His eyes bled red as he closed the distance between them.
A brief expression of fear flitted across the man's face before his own eyes flared a dark crimson. So this was the alpha. Derek would be damned if he let anyone hurt Stiles.
Derek's claws dug into soft flesh. The lamp on their dresser shattered into pieces as the alpha's face smashed into it. Derek held his head against the top of the dresser, blood seeping onto the dark wood.
"If you even so much as think about hurting him—" Derek's words were cut off by a pair of claws raking across his gut. He stumbled back. Before he could regain himself, he was being tackled. He and the alpha tumbled into a pile of boxes, crushing them under their weight. Hastily folded clothes and blankets spilled out around them. Derek rolled to his feet and sank his claws into the man's ribcage, who snarled in pain. He was about to go in for a blow to the throat when he heard a cry of anguish from downstairs. Stiles.
Panic spiked through him. No. No. No. No. He should have known this was a distraction. Why else would they break in upstairs? He spun away from the alpha, his only goal now, to get to Stiles. A heavy thump had Derek scrambling down the steps in record timing. He almost didn't want to see what was waiting for him. Stiles' dead body? He couldn't bear it. He hopped the banister, not bothering with the last few steps. He needed to get to him. He landed in the foyer that opened to the living room, his claws and fangs still out on full display.
He barely got three steps forward before Stiles was skidding to a halt in front of him, his eyes wide.
"You're a werewolf?!" he exclaimed.
Relief and dread washed over Derek. Relief because Stiles was alive. Dread because Stiles now saw a side of him that he'd never wanted him to see.
A thud and snarl behind him had him spinning on his heels. There was still a threat. The alpha. He had to protect Stiles. Before he could strike, though, the small table that housed their one and only plant tipped. The vines of the Pothos Lydia had gifted them, whipped out and curled around the alpha's arms and legs. They climbed him, winding around his throat like a choke collar on a Doberman.
Blood poured from his ears and eyes as the vines punctured them. He let out a pained cry. It was choked off by green spilling from his open mouth. His face stretched like an Edvard Munch painting.
Derek took a stumbled step back as if he were afraid the vines would come for him next. The alpha dropped to his knees and crumpled to the floor. The green of the plant drained, leaving darkened vines and shriveled leaves draped over the now-dead alpha.
Derek's claws and fangs retracted as he spun back to Stiles, whose eyes faded from a vibrant glowing green. His hand was outstretched like Darth Vader. He lowered it, a panicked look on his face.
Derek blinked at his husband. His magical husband. "You have Magic?!" how had he not known? Before he could press further, his eyes fell to the spreading stain on Stiles' shredded blue shirt. The sharp smell of copper hit his nose. His stomach sank.
"You're hurt." He reached out, desperate to see how bad the injury was. But the look on Stiles' face made him unsure. God how he hated being unsure with Stiles. Was he afraid of him? Disgusted by him? He paused his outstretched hand.
Stiles looked down at himself as if inspecting the wound. "I'll be fine, really. It's actually helpful that you're a werewolf," he gave a weak laugh. His expression remained unsure, his eyes almost timid. "Can I touch you?"
Derek's heart cracked. Stiles never hesitated to reach out. Were things really so different now? Did this change how he felt about him? Fear crushed him. He wasn't ready to lose Stiles.
"Please," he whispered desperately. He needed to feel his husband.
Stiles gave a small smile, his eyes filling with tears. Despite the permission, he still acted as though he were afraid of Derek, slowly extending his hands and gently clasping his forearms.
"This shouldn't hurt at all. I'm just borrowing your ability to heal."
Derek didn't care if it killed him so long as Stiles was okay. Relief wafted from Stiles as golden light climbed through Derek's arms and to Stiles'.
"Take what you need." His eyes glanced passed Stiles toward the living room, where Stiles had been coming from before. What had happened? Someone had hurt Stiles. The scent of Ozone painted the air.
Stiles' grip on his arms loosened. Derek pushed past him, his eyes scanning for the other threat. "Who hurt you?" There was no evidence that anything had happened at all. Did they run away? Were they hiding? Waiting to pounce again?
He followed the scent into the living room. Stiles blew past him and yanked the blanket from the couch to cover a body. But it was too late. Derek saw the body lying three or four feet from the kitchen door. There was no way to tell who this figure was by the way the body was shriveled and fried. It resembled the plant that lay dead in their foyer. But the smell in the air gave away his identity. Andy.
Derek gaped at the blanket. He knew what magic could do, but this was beyond anything he'd ever seen. "You did this?" he asked, almost not believing that his sweet, adorable, spastic, husband was capable of such power.
"I-I um, yeah," Stiles answered sheepishly. "He came up behind me and I-I just reacted." He chewed on his bottom lip. "I had to get to you."
Pride swelled in Derek. His eyes didn't leave the blanket-covered body. "Oh. Wow," he breathed. Stiles was incredible. He'd always known it but this... this was unbelievable.
"I'm sorry." Stiles' quiet tone made Derek whirl around to where Stiles had retreated toward the door. His arms crossed over his chest in an anxious, protective manner.
"No, don't apologize. I just... all day I've been trying to keep you safe but... you never needed me." It was a painful realization just as much as it was a proud one.
A tear slipped from Stiles' eyes. "I always need you."
The sight of tears erased any reservation Derek had about touching Stiles. He crossed the room and wrapped him in a hug. Relief flooded him when Stiles didn't shy away, but instead nuzzled into him. He didn't think he could handle if he was afraid of him. It felt so good to hold him.
"I think we have a lot to talk about," he said.
"Just give me a moment. I just need to hold you to know you're okay. I thought—" The words caught in his throat. "I thought they'd kill you because of me."
Had Stiles known them? He pet the top of his head, hoping to comfort him. "Who were they?"
Stiles shrugged into the hug. "I don't know. From what Andy said it seemed like they wanted me for my magic."
"How long have you..." Derek pulled back to meet Stiles' eyes. Surely this wasn't a new thing. He was too powerful for it to be new.
"Been a glowy, magical, young, hot, Gandalf?" he teased. "Technically since birth, but I didn't get any of the cool magic till after my mom died."
"So the whole time." Derek nodded and huffed a laugh.
"How long have you been... craving Scooby snacks?"
Derek gave an affectionate eye roll. "Also since birth."
"So the whole time," Stiles laughed.
How much stress and guilt could have been avoided if they'd just been honest from the beginning?
"Damn, I missed an opportunity to give you a squeaky toy as a wedding gift." Stiles teased again. "So you're an alpha? Where's your pack?" he asked.
Derek's eyes softened. He pinched Stiles' chin gently between his thumb and index finger. "Right here."
Stiles reached up, swiping a thumb at the corner of Derek's mouth. "I doubt this would taste like cherry." There was a smear of blood. He wiped it on his already-stained shirt.
Derek smiled and surged forward. Their lips crashed together. Not ten minutes ago, he feared he'd never get to experience this feeling again.
When they pulled back, they pressed their foreheads together. Derek breathed in Stiles' scent. It was a comforting one. One that now that he knew, was layered with a certain arcane spice. How had he not noticed before? Perhaps, it was true what they said, ignorance was bliss.
The space between them doubled as Stiles pulled back. His eyes searched Derek's. "But no really, where's your pack? You can't be an alpha with just one puny human that didn't even know you were a werewolf."
Derek tried not to wince. He had wondered when Stiles would press about his werewolf status. It was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to. "My alpha status wasn't planned. Wrong place, wrong time. I never wanted this." He gestured to the dead body under the blanket. They would not be putting that back on the couch. Too bad, it was a nice blanket.
"How long have you been an alpha?" Stiles' tone shifted from curious to mocking. "Since birth?"
Derek huffed a laugh. "Five or so years. I haven't really kept up with it. I never took a pack." He'd considered it briefly. But the idea of not being part of his mother's pack had been too hard. He'd rejected the idea completely. It felt too much like a betrayal. A desperate attempt to save a young girl had turned into a police investigation and red eyes in the mirror.
Stiles' brows pinched into a sympathetic frown. He placed a hand on Derek's chest, like he was trying to guard his heart. "Derek that- that's awful. Being an alpha without a pack is a terrible way to live. You have nothing to draw from, nothing to hold you down. It would be like if I didn't have my magic. Pack is a part of being a werewolf as much as magic is a part of who I am."
Derek sighed. He had never imagined having this conversation with Stiles. He had hoped to never have to. But it seemed like this was the trajectory of his life. His mother had warned him that he couldn't escape it. He had thought he proved her wrong.
"Becoming an alpha was... the worst thing that could happen to me. It took me from my family. They were my pack. I never wanted another one. But a pack can't have two alphas. It disrupts the balance." He stared into Stiles' honey-colored eyes. "Then I met you. And I knew I'd never need anyone else."
"You're all I need too, but Derek I don't want you to deny a part of who you are to be with me."
Derek would deny any part of him if it let him be with Stiles. But he knew well enough not to say as much. Instead, he asked. "What about you? Where's your coven? Am I gonna find a broomstick in one of these boxes?" he gave a teasing smirk.
Stiles' mouth dropped open. "Do you think I'm a witch?!" he stepped back like Derek had struck him.
"Well, I don't know what you are." He gestured to the covered body again. "You're something."
"If you ever call me a witch again, I'm buying you a doghouse for out back. I'm a druid."
Those words struck Derek like a knife to the heart. A druid? No. He couldn't be. The room shifted around him. Or maybe it was just his entire life. His balance faltered, forcing him to take a stumbled step back. "Do-do you have an alpha?" Surely not. He would have smelled him. Unless he used his magic to hide him. The thought of smelling another alpha on Stiles was almost enough to make his wolf surface.
"Why would I? I already have one lug trying to tell me what to do." Stiles' tone was still light, teasing. But Derek's stomach was in knots as he listened for a lie. An emissary protected their alpha with their life. Stiles would be fully in his right to keep it from Derek. But he hoped he wouldn't. He hoped there was more respect and trust between them.
"You're an emissary though." His eyes continued to search Stiles' expression for any clue. If he had an alpha that would be almost as bad as finding out he had another husband.
Stiles squinted at him. A tell tale sign that he was being an idiot. "I'm a druid... I didn't specifically say I was an emissary. Derek, do you think all druids are emissaries? Because that's racist. I'm offended." He sneered in mock offense.
Derek blinked. "All the druids I've ever met are emissaries." Maybe Stiles didn't have an alpha after all. "Only alphas really deal with them. Why aren't you an emissary?" he tried to keep the hopefulness out of his tone.
"Because it's rare for a druid not born into or raised alongside a pack to become an emissary. To be an emissary is to be trusted with the pack's lives at the highest level, most of the time equal to an alpha. It's a huge responsibility, but an even bigger trust is needed. My mom left her pack back in Poland when she came here. I know it was something that she missed and always wanted for me, but I knew it would be too difficult to find."
The worry and fear drained from Derek. There was no one else. He almost felt guilty for being relieved. Poor Stiles had never known the love and safety of a pack. The alpha in him wanted to give that to Stiles more than anything. A sinking feeling dug into the pit of his stomach. "I hope I didn't keep you from finding that. You're incredibly strong. You'd make an amazing emissary."
"I gave all of that up when I met you. I had an opportunity out in New York. I almost left with a friend I had helped. He's a dryad and they had just lost their druid emissary. I realized what I had with you made me happier than that ever would. Sometimes I do miss it. Magic will always be a part of me." Stiles glanced down at his left hand and blue swirls of magic twisted between his fingers like a magician rolling a coin. "But Derek, don't think for one second that I'm missing out on what's meant for me."
"That's why he wanted you." Derek looked over at the dead alpha still in their hall. "You know, if you-if you wanted to be an emissary..." he trailed off. It was a scary thing to even consider, but he'd do anything for Stiles, even embracing this life. He stepped in, closing some of the distance between them, and threaded their fingers together. It was like sticking his hand into a frozen lake. Ice cold to the point it was almost painful. Almost. The blue swirled around their hands for just a moment before dispersing.
Stiles laughed. "Oh man, two seconds ago you thought all druids were emissaries. Absolutely not." Stiles squeezed his fingers.
Derek tried not to wince. It was hard not to take that rejection hard. But he understood. It wasn't something you did on a whim.
"I won't say yes to that until you fully know what it means. If you get sick of me you can't just divorce an emissary. Parting from an emissary is like ripping half of your soul away."
Derek fought to not scoff at Stiles' words. "I'd never get sick of you. Parting from you would already be like having half of my soul ripped away."
"Well, it's good you're stuck with me then." Stiles let go of Derek's right hand and threaded their left hands together before leaning in and pressing a kiss to where their wedding rings touched. "We can work towards it, but I have a feeling your emissary didn't tell you as much as they told your alp- Oh my god, Derek! Oh my god!" Stiles slapped at Derek's chest like he just realized something major. "Your mom is an alpha isn't she?!"
Derek was still reeling from his emotional whiplash of being rejected, before being told they'd work towards it to now being assaulted with questions about his mom. "Yes?" he frowned.
"Oh my god! At Christmas? At Christmas, they were all wolves?! How did I not know? This is insane! Your mom makes such a good green bean casserole and she's an alpha!"
Derek couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up in him. God, Stiles was so endearing. "You'll have lots to talk about next year."
"Next year? I'm getting brunch with her next week. I'm not waiting for Christmas. This is huge!"
Panic briefly gripped Derek as it always did whenever Stiles interacted with his family. But it didn't have time to settle. There was nothing to fear any longer. No huge, life-altering secret to scare Stiles off. It was out in the open now. Stiles could have brunch with his mother every day— wait. "You're having brunch with my mom?" why had he not been invited? Why didn't he even know about it?
"Yes, yes, they have bottomless mimosas downtown. We're going to go once a month. Not the point. Holy shit I can't believe it! Wait, when Cora broke her leg in South America and your mom went to get her was that werewolf shenanigans, or did she really fall down a mountain hiking? Oh my god, I have got to call your mother! Actually, do you think she's still up? We could go visit."
Derek put his hands on Stiles' shoulders. He loved that he was so eager to talk to his mother. It had always warmed his heart how much they loved him and how much he seemed to love them. But right now wasn't the time. "Stiles, we have two bodies we need to deal with. Let's surprise visit my mother tomorrow, yeah?" he couldn't help the fond look in his eyes as he met Stiles'.
"Oh, yeah, totally. What do you think we should do with them?" Stiles' eyes darted between the two dead wolves.
Derek glanced over his shoulder toward the back door. "I actually have a spot already."
"What for bodies?" Stiles snorted, like the notion was an absurd one. Never mind the fact that they had two dead bodies to contend with.
"Well, I had to do something with the one from this morning."
Stiles' smile dropped and his arms flung out before settling on his hips. "What do you mean the one from this morning?!"
"Remember the brother I mentioned?" He nodded toward Andy's body.
"You killed him!?"
Derek's brows rose. The shock on his face was just as much insulting as it was endearing. He stepped forward, sliding his arms through Stiles', and pulled him in so they were chest to chest. He had no idea the lengths Derek would go to to protect him. There was no one more important to him. He met Stiles' eyes. They danced like ice in a glass of whiskey. He smiled, "Isn't it obvious? I'd kill anyone for you."
~~~
(Domestic Bliss)
By @lifebeginsbyleaving
Stiles rolled over with a grumpy sigh. Without opening his eyes to the early morning light he reached over to feel an empty space and frowned. His head lifted topped with violent sleep tousled hair as he squinted trying to find his husband. "Derek?" Stiles yanked his foot back up from the cold wood floors and then slid into Derek's slippers. Stiles might've complained one too many times about how cold the floors were until Derek rolled his eyes and looked in boxes till he found his own slippers. He didn't know if he'd ever get sick of Derek's face with that cute fond look even as he tried to be upset with him.
He yawned gently and looked around the still bare room. There was nothing except their furniture and boxes waiting to be unpacked. In the three days previous they hadn't gotten to the bedroom much yet, but he still smiled when he walked past the box labelled Stiles' PJs. It was filled with all of Derek's old t-shirts and basketball shorts. He had filled the box and labelled it as Derek's, but Derek came over and crossed it out and rewrote it while teasing about how they were no longer his own as Stiles wore them more than he did now. Stiles felt a lightness in his chest as he reflected on how much of a dream moving into their new house had been. They were still in the idyllic honeymoon phase where every night was the best one yet. The happiest day of his life had happened, they went on their honeymoon, and now just a couple months later he was moving into his dream home with a man better than his wildest imagination. His life was perfect. He had his dad, their wonderful home, and Derek.
Stiles reached for his toothbrush right next to Derek's and there was that overwhelming sense of love and happiness again. No matter how much they bickered or even fought, being with Derek was like the moment you figure out that everything will actually be okay in the end. It was that sigh at the end of a hard day and the first smile after being so sad you think you can't breathe. Derek meant safety, love, and home and Stiles finally understood what his parents had. He always appreciated that they were amazing together and that's what made losing her so hard. It was such a privilege to find someone that you didn't have to tolerate living with, someone that instead you had to survive living in the moments without them.
He rinsed his mouth out and spit into the white sink. Looking up at the mirror he tried to tame his hair while calling out again, "What do you want for breakfast?"
His brow furrowed as he received no response. He made his way down the creaky steps with soft padding slippered feet. He called out to the house as he entered the empty kitchen, "Oh husband mine? It's rude to not give me morning snuggles and kisses." Stiles pulled some coffee grounds out of an otherwise barren cabinet. He saw a note on the coffee machine and plucked it off with a quick snatch.
"'Morning sweetheart, went for an early run. Hope you slept well. Coffee should be hot (just like you) See you shortly. -D' Hmm. I'd rather have a sleepy husband, but I will take coffee." Stiles rubbed over the corner of the note where there was a dirty brown finger print on the paper. He must've had to clean up some coffee grounds. Stiles smiled down at his husband's rushed sloppy writing.
He used the last two slices of bread to make toast and decided he'd run to the store quick so they could have a proper lunch. He was getting sick of quick sandwiches, they needed some real food in the house. He could probably get back right after Derek showered and as he was making a protein shake if he hurried.
He grabbed the notes Derek had left on the counter and scrawled a quick note back to him for when he got back from his run.
Stiles balanced a piece of toast on top of his mug of coffee and stuffed the one he was eating in his mouth so he could open his bedroom door to get ready.
***
Stiles always somehow got the cart with the psychotic wheel and it was driving him crazy. He'd already bumped into two other carts because his possessed one took turns like they were an option instead of the only unoccupied path in a crowded aisle. He tried kicking the wheel to no avail and then sighed in defeat. He almost grabbed a box of cocoa pebbles, but instead grabbed Derek's middle aged woman cereal. He urged the wire monster towards the peanut butter while thinking wistfully of his abandoned chocolatey goodness.
He had tried to stick to the list, but he had gotten carried away with all of the things he thought they could fill the pantry with. He had gotten two cans of condensed milk despite not having a recipe for it. It was just something always in the back of the cabinet growing up. Somehow placing them in the basket had made those little flutters in his chest tickle again as if they somehow made their house a home with their uselessness. He had also gotten a couple autumn themed candles. Derek would hate them. Stiles smiled even at the thought of Derek sneering at a sweet vanilla chai kisses candle.
Stiles looked up from his overflowing cart to look directly at Derek. "Derek!" His grin completely took over his face.
"Stiles...hey, what are you doing here?" Derek sounded confused and his whole body froze. Stiles hardly ever spooked Derek or caught him off guard like that, but he supposed it was probably pretty strange for them both to be there.
"Oh you know, I wanted to fill up the house. Get some groceries for my husband, even though he did leave me in an empty bed. There's a monster in our house that eats peanut butter like breathing." Stiles deadpanned.
"A monster in our... oh right," Derek chuckled sheepishly. "Sorry about that, I just wanted to get an early start. I made sure the coffee was ready though." Derek came around his cart and stood in front of Stiles to give him a quick kiss.
"Yeah thank you, that was really nice honey bun." Stiles shot out finger guns as he called him the overly sweet name.
Derek rolled his eyes fondly and then reached for the candle Stiles knew he would dislike the most. "Really?" He practically sneered at the name before putting it back into the cart.
"Hey say what you want, white girls got nothing on my fall game. I got the healthy cardboard cereal you pretend to enjoy as a compromise." Stiles sent him a saucy wink.
Derek's smile was small, but Stiles knew he loved the little things that showed how much they appreciated each other the most. "You take such good care of me." Derek praised and reached out to brush an appreciative thumb across Stiles' chin.
"I'm great at this marriage thing." Stiles mused. He finally looked away from his handsome husband's face to take in the state of his muddy joggers. "Hey, what are you doing here?" He peered around Derek's wide chest into his cart. "Did you sign us up for a HGTV show I don't know about? A rake and paint? What happened to you by the way? I thought I was the one with godlike grace and agility?" Stiles snarked self deprecatingly.
Derek turned his back to move some of the supplies around to show Stiles. "I was just trying to fix up that old building for you. I know you were excited about it, and the yard could use some tlc."
Stiles moved his cart to gently bump Derek's hip. "Look at you, not so bad at this yourself handsome. I will fight you for the husband of the year title though. I was thinking of making butternut squash soup and salad for lunch, how does that sound?" Stiles looked down at his cart to see if he forgot any ingredients.
"A home cooked meal? You win automatically. I'm headed out actually, so I'll see you at home?" Derek said briskly.
"Okay yeah. Before you head out you need me to get anything for you from the store?" Stiles joked.
"Maybe a less poisonous candle? Or are you gunning for my life insurance already?" Derek smirked before pressing a kiss to Stiles' forehead. "Be safe." He added.
"You have unscented ones. And I don't need the money nearly as much as I need someone to make me coffee in the morning." Stiles confessed over his shoulder as he walked away from him.
Derek headed to the counter to check out. "Oh, maybe some of that creamer with the picture of the dog dressed as a pumpkin? You know the one." He called back.
Stiles looked in his cart at the cat curled up in the pumpkin on the creamer bottle already in his cart. Damn did he love his husband.
***
The plastic bag rustled as Stiles pulled out the thyme and garlic. He was somewhat glad Derek was out in the yard raking the leaves still. He adored spending time with his husband, but Derek and him both had verydifferent ideas of what a kitchen should look like while cooking. Derek cleaned dishes as he used them. Stiles was happy if the oven wasn't on fire. He still had grocery bags that needed to be unpacked, all of the soup ingredients were piled near the paper towels, and he had a half chopped onion near the pot he'd need to use for the soup. He arranged the daisies he had picked up for Derek in a green vase with meticulous care. He knew how much Derek liked plants in the house and secretly loved the romantic gesture of receiving flowers. He smiled at the finished bouquet and then returned to the onion while humming "I'll make a man out of you."
Stiles continued unpacking groceries and prepping the vegetables while working his way through the Mulan soundtrack. It drove him crazy while cooking if he had a song stuck in his head.
Stiles brought the squash to his cutting board and pushed aside the bowl . He moved to the sink to wash off the bits of onion skin that clung to his fingertips and looked out the window. He saw Derek frenetically raking leaves. Just the sight of him made Stiles pause while the warm water cascaded down his hands to rapidly circle the drain. He must've felt the eyes on him because he looked up almost immediately and gave him a subtle wave. Stiles' lips pulled into a grin and he waved back.
Stiles turned back to the squash with that warm feeling still inside of him. He placed the wobbly vegetable on its side and attempted to chop it in half. His still damp hands slipped and in a split second the knife sliced through the air and was flung straight towards his bare foot.
Stiles' eyes widened and in a fraction of a moment he flung his hand towards the knife too late to catch it, but with a flash of his eyes the knife halted midair. He quickly gripped it before letting the glow leave his eyes. The same eyes that then frantically searched to see if Derek had somehow appeared in the kitchen to see him or was peering inside the kitchen through the window. After verifying Derek was still in the yard he let out a relieved sigh.
Two years ago Stiles had pictured his future life completely different. He was about to give up on small town life and forget about ever being able to settle down before he met Derek. Having magic was never easy on him. People brought him all sorts of issues to solve like he had all the answers. It made dating and keeping people close really difficult. He never knew what to say to people. 'Oh, sorry I had to leave our date early. Someone I've never met before needed my help killing kelpies that were drowning people!' Some how he thought that wouldn't be the best second date opener. He kept being dragged into mystical hijinks as he was the only druid anywhere near their town. It was almost as if he had a magical beacon on himself saying I'm magical and I will help you.
It all became too much. His dad was the only one close to him that knew who he really was, what he could do. It was tiring always lying to people. Then, one day he had helped a dryad from New York. He was so grateful to Stiles he had invited him to move to the city. Stiles had told him how lonely the small town supernatural life was. How it felt like you were always lying and there was no way out, no one to share it with. He had even tried to stay out of the supernatural world, but it kept dragging him back in. The man then told him how different the city was. There were entire communities he could join and Stiles finally had hope. As loathe as he was to leave his dad, he had decided to go.
The month before he would've left he met Derek. Suddenly it wasn't about what drug him back to the life, it was about what kept him in the one he wanted. So many times he had wanted to tell Derek, wanted to not be lying. He knew it was better this way, he would give up anything for Derek and their perfect life. He wanted to be normal for Derek. He gave up magic and turned away anyone who asked him for help. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to Derek because of him. He had his regular life now, and it was perfect. Derek was perfect. He was gorgeous and dorky, even if sometimes he could be a bit boring with his need to be obsessively domestic. Stiles loved it. He loved his boring normal life. He didn't care what he gave up for it or how much he had to lie about himself.
Stiles hadn't realized how long he'd been lost in thought. He looked down to the now soup filled pot he had made on autopilot. He would have to call Derek in soon now that lunch was ready, but he needed a few moments to collect himself. Derek always knew when he was feeling deeply, but he didn't want to sour the day.
He was about to go out the back door when he heard a knock at the front. Stiles hurried to the door, maybe it was his dad popping in.
It was a man with a charming smile and a smooth voice, "You must be Stiles."
Stiles was caught off guard. "Hi, and who are you? Do you know my husband? Do I know you?"
The man chuckled, "No, not yet. But I'm hoping to be good friends with you."
Stiles heard the back door crash open and slam shut. The harsh sound was on Derek's honey do list to fix.
"You and your husband. Of course. I just wanted to meet the new neighbors." Right on cue as he spoke Stiles heard Derek's heavy shoes clunking towards them.
There was something about this man's eyes Stiles didn't quite trust, but he wanted to be inviting. "Oh, do you live nearby?"
Derek shouldered in front of him pushing open the door even further. "This is private property, what do you want?"
Stiles' jaw was dropped about as wide as the man's shocked eyes. The man stammered out, "Uh, sorry, I was just..." He took a quick step back while his eyes never left Derek. "It was nice meeting you."
Stiles thrust a hand out after him, as he beckoned him back. "Oh don't go! No, I'm sorry. This caveman with no manners is my husband." Stiles shot Derek a withering glare. "Please don't mind him. We'd love your company. I just finished making lunch."
Derek snapped his head to look at Stiles and rudely replied, "I'm sure he can't stay."
The man started to decline, "Oh, no, I-"
Stiles gripped Derek's arm and dug his fingertips in. "I insist!"
The man and Derek stood in some sort of awkward stalemate. Stiles could not believe his husband. Derek was never like this he was so friendly and charming whenever they met new people normally. Sure he'd trash talk them and let him know later if he didn't really like them, but this is the first time Stiles had ever seen him so hostile and rude.
Stiles pointedly said, "Come in. What was your name?" Derek didn't budge till Stiles started to shoo him back into the house.
Stiles had no idea what had gotten into Derek his jaw was clenched, but he backed up.
"Ansel Williams." Ansel looked at them with a strangely intense gaze. "But you can call me Andy. I can see that your husband recognizes the name. It's very unique. It's odd that you don't th-"
Stiles looked at Derek completely lost. It made sense why Derek was acting hostile if he didn't get along with Ansel, but Stiles didn't know why then Ansel was acting like he wanted to be friends. He felt like he was missing something.
He just was about to say maybe they should have lunch some other time wanting to trust his husband when Derek interrupted the man. "My name is Derek, nice to see you again," Derek stuck out his hand which Ansel took hesitantly. "Stiles made soup. I hope you're hungry."
"Famished." The man regained some of his earlier confidence as he followed them into the dining area.
***
Stiles passed around the freshly baked rolls again hoping to cut the tension that had accumulated over the meal. "So what kind of special assets does your company acquire?"
Andy replied with his mouth full, "Well it depends though we really go after the more coveted and unique people."
"Oh, so you're a headhunter?" Stiles said interested, hoping to steer the conversation in a direction that wouldn't have his husband glaring and quiet.
"Something like that." The man smirked and Stiles wondered if he was being modest about what he actually did. "What do you guys do?" Andy asked while gesturing between them holding a half eaten roll.
"Well, I'm an online web designer so I work from home." Stiles looked at a completely silent Derek, who seemed like he was sitting on tacks, before turning back. "And my wonderful husband is a basketball coach at the high school. The kids absolutely love him. He's so good with them. So much better than he is with adults sometimes." Stiles gushed proudly.
He gave Derek a pointed look and gave his hand a few rough pats hoping to coax him into the conversation. Stiles didn't want their very first introduction to the neighborhood to be so stilted.
"How very domestic." Andy commented.
"It's a very rewarding job." Derek pushed out without an ounce of the pride and happiness Stiles knew his job brought him.
"He's really very good. He took the kids to state last year. Honey you should go show him the photo in the garage and your trophies! I have to go get dessert ready anyway." Stiles stood up to go to the kitchen. Before he left he pressed a kiss to Derek's temple and whispered into his ear, "Be nice and make friends." Stiles dug his fingers into Derek's shoulder firmly to try and convey how rude Derek was being.
He smiled at Andy and said, "Dessert will be just five minutes."
When he looked back at Derek he wore the same smile he gave Stiles whenever asked to take out the trash. It was begrudging and appeasing, but also he could never help the tiniest bit of adoration from sneaking in there whenever he smiled at Stiles. No matter how snarky.
Stiles pulled the pie he had warmed up out of the oven and placed the ice cream on the counter to thaw a bit.
As Stiles sliced the pie he thought about how rude Derek had been. It was so out of character for him. Sure Derek could be a bit gruff, but that was downright hostile at moments. Stiles was glad Andy hadn't stormed out or that he didn't take offense at any point. Stiles wanted this move to go well. He wanted to be settled and get along with the neighbors. He wanted the dream life for Derek and him. He didn't know how a grumpy Derek would fit in with his image of summer block barbeques and borrowing cups of sugar. Sure Stiles knew neither of them were the overly friendly or social type, but he just wanted them to have the white picket life. Stiles cleaned up the plates where the viscous cherry red pie filling had smeared while he thought deeply.
Maybe Derek didn't want that. Maybe he wanted it to be just the two of them, which Stiles certainly wouldn't object to. He was just so confused because up to this point Derek had been so kind to any friends Stiles introduced to him and meeting new people he always flashed his pearly bunny smile that melted him every time. Stiles licked the pie server clean before tossing it in the sink. He scooped the hard ice cream with great effort while sticking out his tongue in concentration so he didn't fling it across the kitchen.
Stiles wanted to immediately ask how they knew each other, but Derek had acted so coldly he figured it was not a good time. If they had bonded in the garage Stiles would mention it over dessert. The whole thing was so puzzling to Stiles.
The three forks clinked against the plates as he placed them. Just as he was about to bring the plates to the table he heard the garage door opening. That was strange. Stiles made his way to the garage to investigate the noise forgetting the pie for a moment.
He opened the garage door to see Derek standing under the big rolling door. He turned to Stiles and began to close the distance.
Stiles spoke as he moved, "The pie is ready. Where'd Andy go?" Stiles started to lean around Derek to look out the garage door.
"You didn't murder him did you?" Stiles joked.
Derek let out a small laugh. "He had to go, wife called."
Derek swiped a thumb across Stiles' lower lip and licked it off. "Mmm, cherry?"
"Yeah. It is." Stiles replied with a question hidden in his tone. Stiles squinted at Derek puzzled, but for the moment willing to let it go.
Derek crowded into Stiles' space close enough he could smell his aftershave and forced him to take a step back as he reached past Stiles to close the garage door. "Shall we?" Derek straightened up and gestured to the door grandly with a sweet as pie smile.
Fuck the neighborhood, as long as he had that smile in his house he didn't care how many people Derek chased off.
***
Stiles let the plates clatter loudly after he scrubbed the water away much harsher than needed. If he kept it up the china nor their kitchen towels would survive their first year. He didn't like how evasive Derek had been while they ate pie. Stiles had always loved how honest they were in their relationship together.
Well, except for the one thing he'd always kept. In marrying Derek he made a lifelong commitment to leaving the supernatural world behind. It burned at something deep inside of him. This space and what seemed like secrets between them, they ignited all of his worry and fear. He left his past behind to find a future with his husband, but why did it seem like Derek was hiding in their present? When he thought about it Derek had been strange all day.
Usually he would wake him up before going for a run to let him know and give him a kiss. Usually, Derek wasn't as cold and rushed as he was when Stiles bumped into him at the store. Usually, he preferred to get into Stiles' way in the kitchen because of how much he loved to see Stiles move around the house. Usually, he asked Stiles to keep him company while they did yard work. Usually, he'd be right next to him putting away lunch or doing the dishes. Usually, Derek didn't make it seem like he had things to hide from Stiles.
Stiles pulled himself out of his pity party as he dried a spoon. His husband loved him. This could just be a misunderstanding or a bad day. He could've just been cranky at Andy for interrupting their lunch. Maybe they had history. The thought of maybe they were already growing apart popped just as fast as it appeared. It was laughable to the point Stiles couldn't even believe it had come from his own admittedly over active brain. They were so madly in love with each other it was frankly disgusting. Was he irritated with Derek? Absolutely. However, they were not the type of relationship to let one bad day ruin even the rest of their week. Unfortunately for Derek, Stiles was definitely not the type of husband to let this go though.
Stiles stormed into the unpacked living room. He stopped right where Derek was kneeling in front of the TV to unpack a ripped box of DVDs. "We're going to talk about how lunch went, and how you know Andy. Also, don't try to make me think it isn't a big deal. You don't normally act like that. And don't you dare try and tell me it's nothing or that you're okay. I know you Derek Hale- Stilinski and that lunch was not you and you shutting me out and not talking to me definitely isn't you...." Stiles drug a breath in desperately while waiting a second for Derek to reply. "Okay I'm done now you can speak." Stiles rested his hands that had been gesturing wildly onto his hips.
Derek sighed like he knew what was coming and put the DVDs on the shelf before facing Stiles. "I had an unpleasant run in with his brother."
Stiles squinted at Derek's genuine face. "How unpleasant? Do I need to go over there with the rest of the pie laced with laxatives, or poison?"
Derek huffed a laugh and then wrapped a coaxing arm around his waist. "No, I was being an ass, I shouldn't have acted like that. I'm sorry. I promise to behave in the future."
Stiles melted into him and sighed in relief. "I like when you misbehave. I don't like when I feel far from you. Next time just slam the door in his face and tell me why we don't like him now." Stiles snuggled into his chest.
"Deal." Derek sweetly kissed the top of his head. "I found the DVDs. Pick one while I shower."
***
Stiles was fighting to keep his eyes awake. No matter how much he loved seeing Bucky Barnes in uniform, the feeling of Derek's warmth radiating into his side where he was gently leaning on him was like no other. If that wasn't enough Derek was slowly dragging his thumb along his knee lulling him deeper. Stiles was so content he could live on this edge between his dreams and the dream forever.
Derek jolted and pulled him out of his fulfilled state. Stiles cocked his head to the side in question.
Derek replied, "We should make popcorn. I think the box with the popcorn maker got put upstairs. I'll grab it. You don't have to pause it." Derek stood and a cool rush of air met his side.
"I was just about to fall asleep, that's perfect. Popcorn will keep me awake. Do you want help?" Stiles offered noncommittally as he tucked himself into the blanket.
"No, I've got it. Keep the couch warm for me." Derek spoke already at the base of the stairs.
Stiles yawned, but he sat up to try and stay awake. He absentmindedly checked his phone for a couple moments before he heard the front door jingle.
That was odd. He hadn't heard Derek come down, nor did he know why he'd need to go outside. Stiles pulled the blanket off himself and stood up with a curious gaze towards the dark hallway. As he moved closer he slowly adjusted to the light and right as he wound around the corner a shape suddenly moved towards him out of the darkness. Stiles stumbled backwards in shock back into the living room. As the shape followed him the light spilled from the TV and lamp to illuminate his face and Stiles stopped in the middle of the room out of confusion.
"Andy?" Stiles asked.
"Stiles, hey sorry it's so late. I wa-" Andy wore a charming smile that Stiles didn't fall for one bit this time.
"The front door was locked. Why are you in my home?" Stiles demanded. He hoped Derek stayed upstairs long enough for him to deal with this. Whatever this was. Stiles crossed his arms and continued on, "Is this about your brother? If so, I doubt an argument is worth breaking into the sheriff's sons' home."
Andy took small leisurely steps closer. "This has nothing to do with Ansel. He was just an unfortunate loss along the way thanks to your dear husband."
Stiles tried to figure out what that meant while looking around the room for weapons. His options were limited to whipping DVDs at him like a knock off Gambit or running to the kitchen for knives. "What do you want with my husband?"
Andy laughed. "We don't want him. He is just in our way. You're quite special Stiles."
Stiles had heard enough. He looked to where the door was left ajar like Andy planned on it getting used again soon. Almost as if someone else would be coming in soon. He didn't know what was going on he just knew he had to deal with this fast especially if there were more coming.
"We just want to talk. We just want you to come with u-"
Stiles cut him off with a sudden uppercut and then immediately dashed for the kitchen. The punch hadn't had quite the effect he hoped because Andy was hot on his heels enraged. Stiles heard his steps too close. He wouldn't make it to the knife block.
Stiles went full speed into the stack of boxes on the other side of the kitchen and kicked out a leg behind himself blindly hoping to keep just enough distance between them. Thankfully he found what he was looking for as Andy gripped his calf tightly trying to wrench it to the side so he could grab Stiles. Stiles spun around and violently smashed the heavy wok into the side of Andy's skull. He used the second of dazed confusion to push against Andy's chest.
Stiles' eyes widened as Andy grew claws and fangs in front of him. The man before him growled as his eyes flashed blue.
"Oh fuck." Stiles swore.
"We just need you to come with us you little bastard. If you come easy we won't hurt your husband, but you're coming either way."
Stiles saw red at that threat, but he pushed it down. There was that "we" again. Stiles felt his stomach drop as he realized his mistake. The door was open so Andy could take him back through it, but if someone was going to follow they would've already. They didn't need to come in through the door because they were already inside.
It didn't take that long to get a popcorn maker.
With that realization Stiles heard a crash of glass shattering upstairs.
Stiles felt everything at once rage, despair, hopelessness, and finally determination. He held up his palms as they flashed with a blinding painful light. It was as if he had lit up their kitchen with a flash bang that could harness the sun itself.
As Andy groaned in pain and clutched at his face disoriented, Stiles pushed past him to sprint upstairs.
He must've been too loud because despite being temporarily blinded, Andy was able to grab onto his torso and sink his claws in before he had even made it through the living room. Stiles shouted in pain from the digits that dug deep into his flesh.
He needed to get to Derek. Andy was in his way.
Stiles gripped both of the werewolf's wrists and attempted something he knew would drop him instantly. Lightning crackled around Stiles' white knuckles that were now covered in his own blood from where they gripped Andy's splattered arms. Stiles could feel the man shaking behind him, but if anything it just drove his claws in deeper. Werewolves had a high tolerance for electrocution. However, it did make them susceptible to other forms of magic. Stiles' eyes started to glow pure white as all of the moisture from the man started to pull out of his eyes, his ears, and finally his mouth. First it was just little trickling strands and then pouring streams that mixed with the electricity as the moisture started to explode out of his skin like a wrung out sponge.
With a heavy thunk the dried out crisp husk of a man fell to the floor.
Stiles started towards the stairs again, but for the second time in less than a minute was dumbstruck with the fangs and claws in front of him. "You're a werewolf!?" Stiles shouted the question at his newlywed husband with wide eyes as he nearly ran into him.
Derek looked relieved, well as much as Stiles could tell through the sideburns his husband never had before.
The floor where Derek had just dropped down groaned in protest as another heavy snarling body thumped down right behind him.
Stiles saw the man's red eyes trained on his husband and reacted instinctively as Derek whipped around to face the threat.
Stiles' hand raised to their cherished house plant sitting on the table up against the stairs while a vibrant green glow emanated from his fingertips and eyes. The pothos had been with them since their first apartment. Lydia gave it to them as a housewarming present. Derek would be upset with how much care he had put into keeping it alive, but he couldn't think about that right now.
The thin vines whipped out and grew in both number and size. In the blink of an eye they wrapped around the alpha's arms and legs just as he was about to swipe his claws at Derek. The green ropes held him taut as even more sprouted thorns and wound around his neck. The alpha began to scream as the thorned vines pushed into his eyes and ears causing blood to gush out. His scream was choked off as vines burst out of his mouth. He fell lifeless to his knees and then finally slumped to the ground as the vines atrophied and turned brown.
Stiles breathed in and out to calm himself from the carnage that had happened in their previously peaceful house in but a few moments.
He lowered his hand slowly and the glow left his eyes, eyes that now met Derek's after they left the now non-existent threat.
He took in his husband's shocked face and didn't even know how to start the conversation, hell the multiple conversations, they now had to have. Like what was he supposed to say, 'Hey honey, why yes I've always been able to do this. Dear, how long have you been a werewolf? Love of my life, would you like to burn the bodies or should I start to look up pig farms?' Stiles felt a pit well in his stomach, for once he did not want to talk to his husband. He didn't want to ruin what they had. Maybe he could wipe Derek's memory. He was spiraling he knew, but he couldn't give up their perfect life. He never wanted to bring Derek into the supernatural life, but here they were.
"You have magic?!" Derek exclaimed.
Derek's eyes fell to Stiles' blood soaked torso. "You're hurt." Derek slowly reached out then paused, almost like he was expecting Stiles to lash out with a dandelion from the yard.
Stiles looked down at his stomach almost noticing the wounds finally through the shock of what had all happened. "I'll be fine really." Stiles looked at Derek's paused hand on his way to reach out. "It's actually helpful that you're a werewolf." Stiles chuckled weakly. "Can I touch you?" Stiles sounded so very unsure about it even he was surprised that he was talking to his husband. The one person that never made Stiles feel unsure.
Derek let out a desperate whispered, "Please."
Stiles' eyes started to water at the tender feelings and warring worries welling inside of him. He wouldn't have known what to do if Derek turned him away. He smiled as he reached out to grab Derek's arm. "This shouldn't hurt at all, I'm just borrowing your ability to heal." Stiles hesitantly gripped Derek's forearms and focused. Golden glowing veins spidered from Derek's arms to Stiles' waiting palms. His wounds gently glowed the same golden color as they closed.
"Take what you need." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Derek's head swiveling back and forth.
After his flesh had finished fusing back together Stiles released his arm somewhat regretfully, he liked the contact.
"Who hurt you?" Derek spoke with purpose as he pushed past Stiles toward the living room.
Stiles felt his body flush with panic again. He rushed past Derek and pulled the blanket from the couch with a gust of magic to quickly cover the Kentucky fried crispy man, but he was too late.
Derek was stock still looking at the blanket. "You did this?" He asked quietly.
A million explanations and excuses flooded through Stiles, but nothing more powerful than the shame. Would Derek think of him differently? He hadn't just killed this man, he had given him an agonizing death. Stiles didn't think about the consequences, he didn't think about the man's pain, and he certainly didn't think about mercy. All he thought about was the fastest way to get to Derek no matter how brutal.
"I-I um, yeah. He came up behind me and I- I just reacted." Stiles' voice was small and he started chewing his lip. Maybe he could wipe his memory of the last half hour. No popcorn, they just finished the movie. "I had to get to you." Stiles didn't like how pleading his voice sounded to his own ears and he definitely didn't know what he was asking of Derek. Please don't look at the body. Please don't be freaked out by how much I love you. Please don't be concerned with the lengths I'd go to for you. Please. Please just don't think I'm a monster.
And if he was really honest and let the most pitiful of them all have a voice, please don't love me any less for the dark things I'd do just to keep you safe.
"Oh." Derek sounded absent minded in a way he had hardly ever heard him.
His eyes were still on the blanket covered body.
"Wow." Derek spoke pushing out each letter of such a simple word in a way that made Stiles taste bile on his tongue. There were many ways in which Stiles wanted to amaze his husband, this was not one of them.
Stiles took several steps back towards the door creating space between them in case Derek didn't know how to tell him he didn't want him near anymore. "I'm sorry." Stiles held his arms against his torso knowing the warmth he'd leeched while holding onto Derek was still on his palms, and yet he felt only a chill up his spine.
Derek finally snapped back to the moment and turned to face him. "No, don't apologize. I just... all day I've been trying to keep you safe but... you never needed me." Derek sounded impressed.
The tears finally fell from Stiles' eyes. "I always need you." He confessed.
Derek stalked over and pulled him into a hug. Stiles buried himself into Derek's chest and let out a breath of relief.
"I think we have a lot to talk about." Derek said.
"Just give me a moment. I just need to hold you to know you're okay. I thought-" Stiles' words caught in his throat. "I thought they'd kill you because of me." Stiles still felt the guilt pulsing inside, but the waves lessened as he felt the warm body against him.
Derek gently carded his hands through his husband's hair to soothe him. "Who were they?"
Stiles shrugged while wrapped in Derek's arms. "I don't know. From what Andy said it seemed like they wanted me for my magic."
"How long have you..." Derek unwrapped their limbs to look into Stiles' eyes.
"Been a glowy magical young hot Gandalf? Technically since birth, but I didn't get any of the cool magic till after my mom died."
"So the whole time" Derek nodded with a huffed laugh.
"How long have you been... Craving Scooby snacks?" He cursed internally hoping this wasn't a sore subject for Derek.
Stiles loved the soft affection that leaked out of Derek whenever he tried to roll his eyes at his snark. Derek replied, "Also since birth."
"So the whole time." Stiles laughed. "Damn I missed an opportunity to give you a squeaky toy as a wedding gift. So you're an alpha? Where's your pack?" Stiles asked.
Derek gently pinched Stiles' chin and looked lovingly into his eyes. "Right here."
Stiles looked at Derek's fond smile ready to kiss it when he noticed a smear of blood just to the left of his mouth. He swiped it with a thumb. "I doubt this would taste like cherry." He wiped it off on his ruined shirt.
Derek's lips fully upturned into a grin before he crashed their lips together. He pulled back and rested his forehead against Stiles'.
Stiles pulled his head back to speak to him. "But no really, where's your pack? You can't be an alpha with just one puny human that didn't even know you were a werewolf."
"My alpha status wasn't planned. Wrong place, wrong time. I never wanted this." Derek gestured to the crispy dead body with an air of begrudging acceptance.
"How long have you been an alpha?"
Stiles' tone turned mocking, "Since birth?"
Derek laughed. "Five or so years. I haven't really kept up with it. I never took a pack."
Stiles felt his stomach drop. There had been alphas that went insane without a pack in a matter of months. While Stiles would never experience it the thought made him shudder. To be so very alone only wanting someone to connect you to your life and your purpose had to have been torture. Actually, now that he thought about it maybe their experiences weren't all that different. Having power was nothing without someone to protect. Stiles rested his hand on Derek's chest above his heart. "Derek that's- that's awful. Being an alpha without a pack is a terrible way to live. You have nothing to draw from, nothing to hold you down. It would be like if I didn't have my magic. Pack is a part of being a werewolf as much as magic is a part of who I am."
Derek sighed, "Becoming an alpha was... the worst thing that could've happened to me. It took me from my family. They were my pack. I never wanted another one. But a pack can't have two alphas. It disrupts the balance." Derek spoke with such sadness.
"Then I met you. And I knew I'd never need anyone else." Derek had that look, the one that told Stiles he was genuinely happy and it made his heart flutter at the sweet words.
"You're all I need too, but Derek I don't want you to deny a part of who you are to be with me." Stiles hated that for the entire time he knew him, Derek had to hide from him. He didn't want that to be the future.
"What about you? Where's your coven?" A teasing smirk lit up Derek's face.
"Am I gonna find a broomstick in one of these boxes?"
Stiles' mouth dropped open in a baldly offended look. "Do you think I'm a witch?!"
Stiles pulled back from their embrace mildly upset. Druids and witches were very different things.
"Well, I don't know what you are."
Derek once again gestured to Mr. McCrispy. "You're something."
Stiles had already decided to forgive him and only hold it against him occasionally. "If you ever call me a witch again I'm buying you a doghouse for out back. I'm a druid."
Derek’s expression dropped as he pulled from Stiles taking a stumbled step back. "Do-do you have an alpha?" Derek asked fear and horror blatant in his voice.
"Why would I? I already have one lug trying to tell me what to do." Stiles joked confused.
"You're an emissary though." Derek intently stared into his eyes and at his face like he was expecting a lie.
Stiles squinted at him. He had no idea what confused Derek so much. "I'm a druid... I didn't specifically say I was an emissary. Derek do you think all druids are emissaries? Because that's racist. I'm offended." This time his offended face was an act.
"All the druids I've ever met are emissaries. Only alphas really deal with them. Why aren't you an emissary?" Derek asked.
"Because it's rare for a druid not born into or raised alongside a pack to become an emissary. To be an emissary is to be trusted with the pack's lives at the highest level, most of the time equal to an alpha. It's a huge responsibility, but an even bigger trust is needed. My mom left her pack back in Poland when she came here. I know it was something that she missed and always wanted for me, but I knew it would be too difficult to find." Stiles got a bit sad anytime his mother was mentioned, but nothing made that hollow spot in his heart echo like remembering her last days when she barely remembered their names. If he was honest a bit of that echo was his magic calling out to him.
"I hope I didn't keep you from finding that. You're incredibly strong. You'd make an amazing emissary." Derek looked guilty.
"I gave all of that up when I met you. I had an opportunity out in New York. I almost left with a friend I had helped out. He's a dryad and they had just lost their druid emissary. I realized what I had with you made me happier than that ever would. Sometimes I do miss it, magic will always be a part of me-" Stiles looks down as little blue wisps whirled around his waving fingers. "But Derek, don't think for one second that I'm missing out on what's meant for me." Stiles looked at his husband and he knew every word he spoke was absolutely honest. The love he felt for Derek was like nothing else in the world to him.
"That's why he wanted you." Derek looked at the dead alpha in the hall. "You know, if you- if you wanted to be an emissary..." Derek threaded their fingers together and little blue strings began to swirl around both of their fingers.
Derek seemed nervous and it made Stiles wonder if it was from what he said or the magic still moving between them. He wondered if the chill was getting to Derek's bones yet, a normal human would've had to let go by now.
Stiles let the magic go once again and laughed. "Oh man, two seconds ago you thought all druids were emissaries. Absolutely not." Stiles squeezed his fingers hoping their warmth had returned. To his pleasure his husband's hands were as warm as they always were. How he had never realized Derek's ability to instantly warm a cold bed was supernatural Stiles would never know. "I won't say yes to that until you fully know what it means. If you get sick of me you can't just divorce an emissary. Parting from an emissary is like ripping half of your soul away."
Stiles felt that fading echo in his chest again. This time instead of thinking of the end he thought about the beginning, when the pain was loudest.
He thought about how he had gripped his bed sheets when his parents sat him down to tell him his mom was sick. Then he thought about a little bit later when she told him what he was, what they were. Memories started to resonate inside of his head. How scared she had looked when talking about her pack. How he had always wondered what they had done, done to her, and worst of all forced her to do to make her so very scared. He remembered their happy days and their sad days. He remembered overhearing her telling his dad she felt like they were being ripped from him, that her very soul was torn in two. He would never do that to Derek. He could never. She had fought off her own magic rebelling against leaving the pack as long as she could, but eventually it killed every part of her life in her that she loved. She had left her pack even though she knew what it would mean.
Just the thought of Derek leaving him and then losing himself because of it churned his stomach. He willed away the echo and banished the pain. He would always keep the memories though.
"I'd never get sick of you. Parting from you would already be like having half of my soul ripped away." Derek confessed.
"Well it's good you're stuck with me then." Stiles let go of Derek's right hand to thread their left hands together to kiss their wedding rings. "We can work towards it, but I have a feeling your emissary didn't tell you as much as they told your alp- Oh my god Derek! Oh my god!" Stiles spastically slapped Derek's chest. "Your mom is an alpha isn't she?!"
Derek looked startled. "Yes?"
"Oh my god! At Christmas? At Christmas they were all wolves?! How did I not know? This is insane! Your mom makes such a good green bean casserole and she's an alpha!"
Derek laughed. "You'll have lots to talk about next year."
"Next year? I'm getting brunch with her next week. I'm not waiting for Christmas. This is huge!"
"You're having brunch with my mom?" Derek looked offended at not being invited.
"Yes yes, they have bottomless mimosas downtown, we're going to go once a month. Not the point. Holy shit, I can't believe it! Wait, when Cora broke her leg in South America and your mom went to get her, was that werewolf shenanigans or did she really fall down a mountain hiking? Oh my god, I have got to call your mother! Actually, do you think she's still up? We could go visit."
Derek put his hands on his shoulders to ground him. "Stiles, we have two bodies we need to deal with. Let's surprise visit my mother tomorrow, yeah?" Derek spoke with a fond look.
"Oh yeah, totally. What do you think we should do with them?" Stiles looked between the bodies.
Derek looked over his shoulder towards the backdoor. "I actually have a spot already."
"What for bodies?" Stiles snorted.
"Well, I had to do something with the one from this morning." Derek replied seriously.
Stiles smile dropped and he flung out his arms only to rest them on his hips."What do you mean the one from this morning?!" Stiles couldn't believe this.
"Remember the brother I mentioned?" Derek nodded to Andy's body.
"You killed him?!" Stiles was replaying the day and all the moments he thought his husband had acted strange. Suddenly, Derek hadn't acted strange enough with that new context.
Derek slid his arms through Stiles' while he pulled him in. "Isn't it obvious? I'd kill anyone for you."
His heart shouldn't have melted at that. Stiles was blown away with the love he felt for his husband and how their relationship changed so much and yet not at all over the course of one day. They were going to be okay. They were still going to fall asleep in each other's arms. They were still going to watch movies on the couch. They were still going to always figure things out together. They would now hide bodies together. They would now talk about the supernatural. They would now have very different Christmases. They were still going to be okay, even if they would need to start buying a suspicious amount of bleach.
After all, what was a bit of occasional murder in the shadow of domestic bliss?
Hey, I was wondering if you could give us another little glimpse of the Jilco timetravel fic you are writting? I have been rereading the little exerp you posted at least a few times a day, it has me totally hooked! Young Silco x Jinx is such a specific pairing and I am so happy you are writting for them!
All for you, nonny!
<3
~~~
Between serving customers, Silco hurries back to Jinx. She’s the most beautiful mystery he could imagine and it’s impossible to stay away from her.
Feli shakes her head at him, Connol makes jokes at his expense, and Vander tries to keep him as busy as possible. They all seem to have developed an odd protectiveness of Jinx, but he can’t judge the sudden attachment. He can’t resist her either, just in a very different way.
If she was rebuffing him he could back off, but she isn’t. She might think she’s subtle, posing in ways that show off her figure, but it couldn’t be more obvious.
He’d like to get her posing naked in his bed by the end of the night.
And she stays. Vander gets her a second plate of food after another couple of hours, but Jinx outlasts even Connol and Feli, eventually pulling out a beat up sketch book and colorful bits of chalk to draw with.
It's Vander who thinks to ask after last call, because Vander isn't trying to sleep with her.
“You got a place to stay, little bit?”
Jinx shakes her head, pointedly staring at the bartop.
“There’s extra rooms here,” Vander says. “You can sleep in Silco’s room. He’s got his own place.”
Or he could sleep in his room with her.
“How does that sound?” Silco asks.
If she invites him to stay, he’ll thank the wind goddess he’s never believed in.
“Yeah, that’ll work,” Jinx mumbles.
Silco speeds through the rest of his chores, like a child hoping for an invitation to play. It's embarrassing, but at least Vander is the only one around to witness it. His friend has seen him burn out in front of women and men alike over the years, but more often than not, Silco gets what he wants in the end.
Jinx sees him, he's sure of it, and just as she wasn't subtle with her back arching and leg crossing, he knows that he's not being subtle either. But they're both adults, he thinks. There's no harm in being upfront with what you want.
Which is why it feels like a bucket of ice water when she stands up from the bar, placing a surprising stack of coins on its surface before heading straight towards the sleeping quarters, avoiding his eyes.
Vander laughs. “My condolences, mate.”
Silco flips him the bird. “I’ll survive.”
Probably. He feels a little like he might die if he doesn’t fuck her soon.
“You saw her,” Silco says. “She’s interested.”
“She’s also homeless and new to the undercity. Give her a chance to find her footing before you try to get her on her back, eh?”
Silco gestures vaguely. Vander can take it as agreement or not.
“She’s vulnerable,” Vander says, and now there’s that older brother disappointment creeping in. “You’re better than that.”
No, Silco thinks. I’m not.
“Put the kettle on,” Silco says, his eyes trailing after the path that Jinx took. “A girl should have a nice cuppa before she goes to bed.”
“Sil…” Vander warns, his voice deepening a notch.
Silco sighs. “I'm not going to try anything. I just want to see that she settled in okay.”
When Vander hands him a mug of chamomile and mint tea a few minutes later, the look on his face does not seem to suggest that he believes him. Silco isn't sure that he believes himself, but the idea of seeing Jinx in his old bed, in his old room, is too tempting to pass up.
He knocks, and she answers quickly, peeking around the door. “Yeah?”
Silco holds up the mug. “Tea for you—herbal, so it won’t keep you up.”
Jinx ducks her head, then looks up at him through her lashes. “That’s nice.”
She steps back, opening the door for him… and he finds that she’s wearing a sheet, the fabric wrapped tight around her.
Minors exit/block. Neither of us are responsible for you being here/reading this.
Pairing: Boyd Crowder/Raylan Givens, Ava Crowder/Boyd Crowder
Warnings?: Dinking/alcohol, knife kink, Blood/injury, hand job, blow job, alternative universe, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Canon Divergence, Closeted,
Summary: Boyd punctuates his statement with the gun, bruising Raylan's torso with the thrusts of the weapon. “You're the same angry young man who left, only difference is you ain't so young anymore.”
Please note... Tag will not spoil anything.. so you've been pre-warned. Canon typical violence/alcohol/swearing/sex etc. Also Canon divergence as this AU.
There will be multiple different ships not mentioned in tags, canon and not canon. As well as various characters from the seasons. Much love <3
The wheels of Raylan's black Lincoln screech to a stop, digging divots into the parking lot, shrouded by plumes of dust. He doesn't waste the time to take the keys out of the ignition, slamming the car door and striding to the weather-beaten porch of Johnny's Place. Raylan throws open the door and the bar is momentarily illuminated around Raylan's stretched shadow before plunging back into a timeless, weary yellow.
“Boyd,” his shout half covered by the slam of the door back into its shaky jamb. “I know you're in here. You and I are due for a conversation.”
From out of a recessed hallway, Boyd appears, hands raised by his ears, and a well practiced mask of polite pleasantness gracing his face. “Well Raylan Givens, normally I'd suppose you're here to accuse me of involvement in some malfeasance, but seeing how you've recently seen all my sins laid bare, one does wonder to what purpose you darken my doorstep.”
Raylan rolls his eyes at the thesaurus of bullshit coming out of Boyd’s mouth. ‘You know, if you used that mouth for something other than horse shit. You might actually make something out of yourself.”
Boyd lets out a small huff of laughter, as he slides onto one of the bar stools. One hand on his thigh and the other resting against the polished bar. “May I interest you in some of our finest brew?”
Raylan snorts but he moves his hand off his gun, walking over to stand closer to Boyd. The spiky haired man looked much too relaxed for his liking. “I know what you did Boyd.”
“Oh? And what may I ask, are you accusing me of now, Raylan?” Boyd puts particular emphasis on his name, his fingers swirling along the bar.
Raylan groans, finally giving in and leaning against the bar. Briefly pondering the thought of having something to drink, but no, this was a business call after all and he didn’t want to get caught up in whatever yarn Boyd was spinning. “Boyd, you know full well that Arlo didn’t do half the things he said he did.”
The anger bubbles up now, he can feel it pulling on the collar of his button up. Why he doesn’t just shoot Boyd right where that smug asshole sits is beyond him.
The corners of Boyd's eyes and mouth twitch before falling slack. The rest of his body follows suit, his rigid posture giving way to a slumped exhaustion. Raylan's eyes follow the disappearing tension in Boyd's neck until it disappears under the collar of his white shirt. Raylan wonders what it would look like to see that wave of motion unobscured. He's struck with the image of a snake shedding its skin.
“Raylan,” Boyd's voice is barely above a whisper and Raylan tilts his head as Boyd stalks closer, “my opinions on the matter don't hold a candle to Uncle Sam's facts.” Shifting mercurially, Boyd claps his hands, loudly and deliberately next to Raylan's ear. In a flash, he jumps up on the bartop, swings his legs towards the tap wall and leaps down, narrowly missing the well, landing with more agility than Raylan would have given him credit for.
Raylan feels his right eyebrow betraying him, cocking upwards in interested appreciation. “This ain't between you and the Marshals, the Feds, the locals, the goddamn Dixie Mafia nor Wayne Duffy neither.” Raylan turns and slams both hands onto the bartop, framing Boyd's distant figure.”This is between you and me.” Raylan moves one hand off the polished, warping wood and brings it to his belt.
Boyd’s eyes widen and he reaches for the small of his back. The shiny flash of metal in Raylan's hand hits the counter before Boyd can get a grip on the handle of his .45. Raylan's a quick draw, but Boyd's eyes are faster and when he sees the hateful familiar shape of a Marshal’s star, he turns towards his right, as if the attempt to pull his weapon was only a twist of his body to reach a fresh bottle of bourbon.
“Seriously Boyd?” Raylan's anger shifts to exasperation and he rolls his eyes. “You thought you were gonna fool me with that little dance move? You're better than that.” Raylan's voice drops, weighted by the anger he brought in with him, the anger he carries always. “Put it on the bar, son. I'm not in a mood to ask you twice.”
Boyd scoffs, neck tilted back so far the tips of his hair brush his spine. He reaches for two glasses with his free hand and sets them along with the bottle next to Raylan. “I do still believe we have a second amendment right here in Kentucky, and seeing as how you're here officially as a private citizen, one who has aggressively and persistently threatened not only my body, but the well being of those whom I deem near-and-dear, you'll understand my apprehension at being unarmed in your presence.”
“You're infuriating, you know that, right?” Raylan sighs. There's a bottle of Jim at his left elbow, a Colt on his right hip and Boyd Crowder standing between the two. Raylan is paralyzed between the paths that lay before him, a literal fork in the road he can no longer delay. “Have you ever, even once, considered living a life that means you don't have to conceal a weapon on you at all times?”
“I don't know Raylan, have you?” Boyd quips, sharp and quick. He takes advantage of Raylan's surge of anger to walk the short distance through the back bar door back to the stools where Raylan is perched. He takes in the stretched skin around Raylan's eyes where they're threatening to bulge out of his skull, his body weight dropping off the left side of the stool, ready to stand at a moment's notice. Raylan may be able to fool everyone else, but Boyd recognizes the anxiety in his form, unchanged over the long years since he first recognized the signs.
“A show of good faith then.” Boyd reaches for his gun a second time, slowly. Raylan's eyes track every movement, Raylan's eyes grow impossibly wider the closer Boyd's hand get to his belt. Boyd draws the gun out of his waistband and immediately empties the mag and the chamber in fluid, practiced movements before setting it on the counter between them.
Raylan shifts slightly in his seat as he watches the man unload his weapon. The twinge in his stomach making him sit up a little straighter, “If you’re asking me to do the same-”
“I am not asking for anything Raylan,” Boyd cuts him off pouring them both three fingers of Jim. “I am showing you I am not looking for a fight. At least not one where we end up with holes in us, not that you've ever shown any withhold in regards to shooting me.”
Raylan’s tongue pushes at the inside of his mouth, jaw clenching at being cut off. He takes a sip of the drink, the burn warming him as much as his boiling anger. His eyes fixate on the man standing beside him, unloaded gun between them. The silence hangs in the room like coal dust, both fine and thick.
“I was fully prepared to go back into the cell that you love to see me in,” Boyd speaks, looking at the neon sign behind the bar. “I would never have asked Arlo to take the fall for anything that had been done by my hand. But, as you know full well, Arlo isn’t one to be argued with. Your father has treated me better than anyone has right too.”
Raylan takes another sip of the drink, the thought of decking Boyd over his words flickering over his mind. He remembers seeing the man with blood dripping down his nose, him spitting on the ground. Raylan swallows at the twitch in his stomach, his hands itching to grab something, anything that will stop the spiral from creeping over him, dragging him down.
“Raylan, I know you don’t have many kind words for me. But I am hoping we can converse over this problem without guns,” Boyd says, turning to look at Raylan holding the glass loosely in his hand. He sets it down, moving slightly closer to Raylan, his eyes watching the other man intensely.
Raylan isn't focused, maybe it’s the alcohol dulling his senses, or the fact Boyd was close enough he can smell stale cigarette smoke and fresh bourbon on the man. He's distracted by the way Boyd’s ever shifting eyes locked on his, his tongue wetting his lips. Then the knife is on his throat, a blade that Boyd keeps tucked under the bar for ease of use, now up against Raylan's neck.
Each galloping thrum of Raylan's pulse in his carotid threatens to pull the sharp steel deeper into the soft flesh and muscle of his neck. Subconsciously, Raylan twitches into the blade, daring Boyd to finish this never ending waltz between them. It would be fitting to die here, under Boyd's steady hands, throat slit open like the first hog of the season.
Boyd tsks, eyes spinning under the spell of Raylan's exposed underbelly. Boyd drags his eyes up from the blade to meet Raylan's, his gaze dark with anger, the first warm notes of alcoholic intoxication and familiar challenge. “I told you I was loathe to be unarmed in your presence, Raylan Givens.” His mouth wraps around the name like melting chocolate. “If I was a betting man, I'd say you were slipping.” Boyd drags the knife up, microscopic flakes of dead skin and prickly tips of five o’clock shadow falling like snowflakes onto the shoulder of Raylan's suit jacket.
“Are you happy now? Feel like you've won something?” Raylan’s tongue stumbles over the words as Boyd’s knife wedges into the hollow under his jaw. “You have it all, don't you? Your daddy's little drug empire, your brother's wife, your… My… Arlo’s approval.” Raylan moves, quick-draw reflexes crackling to wrap long fingers around Boyd's wrist, pressing the knife in deeper. “There ain't a damn thing in this world you have, Boyd, that didn't belong to someone else first.”
Raylan pulls the blade away, a single thread of crimson gilding the edge. Raylan twists his grip, Boyd's wrist bending almost to the breaking point and he catches the falling knife with his other hand before it can clatter to the floor. He spins the handle between his fingers, not as familiar as the weight of a gun, but an old habit, easy to fall back into. He presses the steel against Boyd's face, tip of the blade centimeters below the outside of Boyd's eye, resting against the prominence of his cheekbone. Raylan reaches for his bourbon, takes another heavy pull from the glass.
Boyd’s eyes whirl, always assessing. “There was one thing, once,” he whispers. “And if everything else I came across is a hand-me-down, well that seems fitting for a place like Harlan. She never lets anything go, after all.” He leans forward into the edge, his skin splitting, threads of blood binding together, a mockery of a sacred pact. “Just like you.”
Raylan's face sets in a hard line, the pop of his jaw visible as he sets his glass down. The small drop of blood slides down Boyd’s face, and Raylan wonders what it tastes like. His eyes follow it down along Boyd’s cheek. Raylan’s free hand pulls his gun out quick enough that Boyd tenses, eyes fluttering closed for a second as he places it down on the counter.
“You think I haven’t let you go?” Raylan spits out at him, trying his damndest not to let his voice crack. “You, Boyd Crowder, the thorn in my side, I can’t let you go ‘cause you keep crawling back.”
He leans the blade in, dragging slightly down around Boyd’s cheek along the five o’clock shadow, coarse hairs pushing out of tanned skin. Raylan's eyes track the small drop of blood running down the indent the steel made. The two of them a breath away, a sharp edge kissing Boyd’s face and a gun thrust against Raylan’s side.
“You are getting sloppy, Lawman,” Boyd grins, his tongue running over his teeth, the click of the gun echoing against Raylan’s ears. Raylan moves back a hair to see his own gun pressing into his guts. “Are you getting sloppy Raylan, or did you want to be here? Wanted to see if I would put a gun against you and pull the trigger. Give you an actual reason to shoot me, that’s what you want Raylan? This isn’t about your Daddy. This is about you, you and me. It always was Raylan, ever since we dug coal together. You saying I crawled back? You left Raylan Givens. You left all of this. And you could leave any time, go back to Florida. But now you’re standing in my bar, on my turf, trying to threaten me.”
Raylan grinds his teeth looking right at the man who was holding the gun, the knife seeming impotent. He could be fast, take a swipe at Boyd's face, maybe he would drop the gun, but chances are Raylan would end up with the hole in his side. Instead he steps forward leaning his body in against Boyd’s.
Raylan’s breath echoes across Boyd's skin, reverberating back into his lungs, bourbon and guilt with the added flavors of fresh copper and stale coal dust that lives in the hollow spaces of Boyd's bones that Raylan has never been able to shake the flavor of from his memory. “You’re the one with a gun diggin’ into my guts, after you demanded a civilized conversation. You're a liar, Boyd, always have been, and I'm done expecting you to change.”
Raylan moves closer, the knife opening the wound another fraction of depth, digging in deeper. “You promised me you'd changed, but here we are, filling this god forsaken bar with more bloodshed.”
Boyd moves his gun hand with Raylan's step, the barrel notched tight into the space between his ribs. “What would you have me be, Raylan? Another one of your pretty damsels, waiting for a knight in shining Stetson and boots that have never kicked shit?” Boyd turns his face, the knife sliding to the edge of his ear. “It's not in my nature to wait to be rescued. I'm going to get what's mine and you and I both know that'll never be found in the bottom of a mine shaft.” He matches Raylan's step, moving forward, their chests pressing together, Boyd’s knee slides between Raylan's thighs, their waltz morphing into a dangerous tango.
“I could've helped you.” Raylan shifts uncomfortably at Boyd's intrusion into his space. Heat that has nothing to do with bourbon or rage flushes his face. “We could've left together, all those years ago. You could've been free of this mess. Be someone…”
Raylan trails off. For all the words they exchange, there's some that stick in Raylan's heart, never able to escape out into his throat. He wonders if the shape of them died the day the mine collapsed around them, buried under tonnes of grief and fear.
“Be what, Raylan?” Boyd digs the gun in deeper. “College boy like you should use your words,” Boyd’s volume rises steadily until he's shouting, pressing his thigh in deeper, their hip bones clanging together like shell and clapper of a shift change bell. “We weren't ever going to be anything or anyone but what we are. I thought for a time I could change, but I've wisened up to the notion that no one ever changes, and that includes you.”
Boyd punctuates his statement with the gun, bruising Raylan's torso with the thrusts of the weapon. “You're the same angry young man who left, only difference is you ain't so young anymore.”
The pressure behind Raylan's eyes breaks, he's unable to hold back the thunderstorm that's been building for years. “Fuck you, Boyd,” Raylan hisses and brings the knife to the edge of his tightly buttoned collar, sliding the edge against the thread holding the top button fast to the white starched fabric. “You don't know everything about me.”
Raylan hears Boyd’s jaw click as the button clatters to the floor. His eyes flash down at the sound of it giving Raylan a moment to use his free hand to twist the gun out from his ribs, and move his body, pinning Boyd to the counter. The gun hits the floor with a clatter and Boyd’s breath knocks out of him with a whoosh. Raylan moves the knife with practiced ease, popping another button. Boyd shifts his weight so that they are pressed together, the thin edge of the knife the only distance between them.
“I don’t know you?” Boyd smiles, the same smile that caught Raylan’s attention when they were both just kids. Boyd’s hands wrap around Raylan’s wrist holding the knife. “If I don’t know you, why are you here, desecrating the floor of my bar with my shirt buttons?
Raylan tips his head down trying not to meet the man’s eyes as the knife flicks another button off the starched stiff white shirt.
“Don’t you fuckin dare hide behind your oversized hat.” Boyd tsks, his free hand pushes the hat up so he can look right at Raylan. They're frozen, looking at each other. Their faces may now have lines, gray hair popping out here and there, but underneath the accumulated years, they are still those two teenagers stuck down a mine shaft, alone in the dark with only each other's company against the warm call of death.
Boyd is taken aback when Raylan moves first, their lips cracking together as the knife clatters to the floor. Boyd’s frozen in place as he feels the other man’s body push hard against his. How many times has he thought about this exact moment? How many times has he wanted to cross this line since Raylan's ignominious return? A line they’d only crossed once when they thought they were dead and buried under their mother soil. Something neither of them had spoken of since, a sin left unspoken in her bosom.
Then Boyd moves, hand coming up to rub against the scruffy stubble that made his stomach twitch. Heat building as he kisses Raylan, tongue pushing against lips and teeth. It's a rough scramble, they are both trying to take the upper hand and unrelenting to let the other in. Raylan has a slight advantage having pinned Boyd to the counter, but Boyd shifts, pulling at the bottom of Raylan’s shirt.
There's little difference, Boyd understands from his position under Raylan, between the clatter of teeth and straining muscle of tongues from their usual violent confrontations. At least now they're being honest with each other. Boyd tugs at Raylan's shirt hem, desperately grasping at the layers Raylan wears like a mask, he should know. If anyone knows how to wear clothes like armor and expectation, it's Boyd.
Raylan pulls away first, resting his forehead against Boyd's, the sides of their noses pressed together, breath and blood surging together. Boyd's fingers dance along the skin he's exposed above Raylan's belt. He forgives his hands their walk, a path he's never forgotten, over the tight muscle and soft indents of Raylan's torso and wonders if Raylan's skin still tastes the same, like gun oil, adrenaline and rage. Boyd moves his hands up to Raylan's shoulders, pushing his jacket up and off, letting it drift down to the dusty bar floor.
Raylan's hands are on the surviving buttons of Boyd's shirt, working each one open, his mouth licking the stripe of blood from Boyd's cheek before trailing down, following the path of exposed skin, inch by inch. He wants to take Boyd apart, peel him open and raw. He needs to prove to Boyd that he isn't just a criminal, or his father's son, that the expectations the world settled onto his shoulders are not the man he is, not the only version of himself he could only become. Raylan burns with the desire for Boyd to see the man Raylan knows he could've been if both of them had been brave enough years ago.
Boyd tilts his head forward and growls when all he can see is the top of Raylan's hat. “Goddamn it Raylan,” he snarks, “I told you not to hide.” His fingers twist into the soft material of the Stetson and grins sharper than the knife on the floor when Raylan meets his eyes to see Boyd set the item on top of his own head.
“Well now, I think this just might fit,” Boyd smirks, darkly. “But I can't rightfully say it's my color.”
Raylan growls back, a mix of anger at Boyd's audacity, frustration with the damn waistcoat keeping Boyd armored, and unexpected lust at the vision of him wearing his hat. Raylan drops to his knees, and when Boyd hisses at the sight, his face mirrors Boyd's same wicked grin. Raylan presses his face back into Boyd's neck, the knife sliding up against the dark fabric of his woolen waistcoat, pressing into the flesh of his stomach.
Boyd lets out a small huff, “In any other situation I would consider this teasing the height of rudeness.”
Raylan slips the knife through the fabric, the soft pop of woven fibers tearing making Boyd's mouth fall open. That same wicked grin falls across Raylan's lips as the knife’s work finally reveals the flesh of Boyd's torso. His mouth follows the small red trail from Boyd’s collarbone down to just above his belt. Boyd’s hands slip into Raylan’s hair as his mouth burns with the taste of copper and coal. Raylan muses that it’s the quietest the other man has been the whole evening, maybe his entire existence, save a few precious exceptions.
Raylan bites the skin right above Boyd’s belt buckle, and he stifles a moan, which pisses off Raylan. He takes the blade and runs it across one side of the V of the man’s hips. small red lines raise, like the mountain borders of a holler, and Boyd’s hips twitch. Raylan has him on edge so easily.
“If I’d known this would shut you up I’d have done it sooner,” Raylan growls, moving back up to push the remnants of Boyd’s clothes off his shoulders.
Boyd’s hands are under Raylan’s shirt pulling it up and over the man’s head, eyes blown wide as he takes him in.
The door bangs open and both men are frozen in place. Boyd pressed against the bar top, Raylan’s hands on Boyd’s stomach. Johnny’s framed in the sunlight of the doorway. His eyes would be comically wide if it weren’t for the situation he's found himself witnessing.
“The fuck is going on Boyd?” Johnny stutters, rolling into the bar, closing the door behind him.
Raylan has already grabbed Boyd’s pistol and loaded it, leveling it at Johnny’s head. Boyd glares at Johnny from under the hat, and grabs Raylan's gun off the ground.
“You walked in at the wrong time, Cousin Johnny,” Boyd spits out, twirling the gun in his hand.
“Oh, whoa, hold on now,” Johnny stammers, his hands going up, his mouth doing him no favors, as he takes in Boyd’s current state of dress. “Look, I didn’t see anything.”
Raylan’s jaw clicks, as loud as the click of the gun's safety, his shirtless body a tense line. Boyd couldn’t help the flicker of a grin as he watched the man level the pistol at his cousin.
“Like, whatever man.” He shrugs his shoulders against the back of his wheelchair, “Not like we didn’t know in high school.” Johnny stutters out, eyes rolling to focus anywhere but them. Unable to avoid the situation, he glances back at Boyd, eyes shadowed by the wide brim of Raylan's hat, then back to Raylan’s unobscured face.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Raylan spits, mirrorring Boyd, he moves in front of the main in the chair, gun hand steady.
Johnny swallows, looking at Boyd almost pleading, then back to Raylan, shaking where he sits. Raylan reaches down and pulls him to standing by the scruff of his dingy tee shirt.
“L-l-look just pretend I didn’t say anything,” Johnny stumbles over his words.
Boyd wanders over, Raylan's service weapon in hand. “Think it’s a little late, Johnny. But, and this is big but for you now, why don’t we back up a little, take a second to rethink what’s going on here.” He’s talking to Raylan as much as he's addressing his cousin, attempting to diffuse the violence crackling in the air.
Raylan shoves Johnny back into his chair, turning to look at Boyd, brows raised, “You trust this man, Boyd?”
He shifts one eye away from his cousin, up to Raylan. Boyd lowers his borrowed weapon as he goes through infinite calculations, scenarios of “what then,” in a fraction of second before he loosens his grip and holds his hands up, gun balancing on his pointer finger. He sighs, deeply, turning his full attention to Raylan, ignoring the man whose fate they're discussing.
Boyd considers the weapons at his disposal now that he's talked Raylan down from shooting yet another man: Threats, guilt, ultimatums, bribery, guarantees of power, all resting ready at his fingertips. “Well of course I trust my dear cousin Johnny to be the pinnacle of discretion as he always has been when it comes to my affairs,” he turns to Johnny, the unspoken threat clear from his intonation, "he is family after all.”
Johnny almost loses it as he watches the hat nearly slide off his cousin’s head, but chokes his laughter back under a scoff. He studies Raylan's hard set face, more interested in the man he doesn't know, than the cousin he understands. “Yeah Boyd.” Johnny hocks a loogie into the floor, eyes never leaving Raylan’s, the chamber of Boyd's gun in his hand an abyss in his periphery. “I see you have your priorities. Hat and all. And they don't seem to include family.” Johnny injects venom into the word cousin. He holds his gaze with Raylan for as long as his neck will allow, and wheels himself out of the bar that bears his name, business unheard.
Dewey's at the car waiting for him, and without instruction, wheels Johnny to the passenger side. “That was quick, what happened? What's he gonna do?” Dewey’s mouth runs a mile a minute, never waiting for an answer before asking the next question. He lets Johnny make the transfer between chair and car, puts the chair away and flips into the driver's seat. Johnny has yet to speak.
“Well hell, Johnny,” Dewey drawls, turning the ignition. “What happened in there? Is Boyd dead or something and you're trying to be all noble and not tell me? Or is he like doing something really bad and you want to protect me from knowing about it?”
Dewey jumps at Johnny's reaction, a loud raucous laugh that shakes the paneling on the late 80s sedan. Tears stream from Johnny's face, and he grabs the lapels of Dewey's jacket. Instinctively, Dewey turns the steering wheel, the car fishtailing and sputtering across the dirt and gravel.
“Yeah, Dewey, you absolutely do not want to know what our asshole boss has deemed more important than taking my meeting. “ Johnny lights a cigarette, cranking down the window. “But he's definitely going to regret it. Turn, right, here,” Johnny points to the upcoming unmarked intersection, the first turn on the path towards Ava Crowder's.
Boyd clicks the lock at the front door, Raylan’s gone to take care of the back. Boyd can't stop the wide grin from splitting his face when Raylan returns. His hard lines and smooth movements strike Boyd as something predatory and feline, as Raylan walks back over to the bar to grab his shirt off the floor.
“What are you doing?” Boyd slithers between Raylan and the bar, eyes tinged with worry.
“Getting dressed and leaving before you go and do whatever you're planning on doing to Johnny. What does it look like?” Raylan huffs, pulling an arm through a sleeve.
Boyd isn’t having any of it, pushes the man back against the bar and pulls the shirt back off, long fingers dragging against Raylan's exposed arm. He looks at Boyd with confusion crossing his face. “We ain't doing this.”
In a flash, Boyd has the gun up off the bar and in his hand. “We aren’t? You were on your knees in front of me just moments before and I fail to see how the situation has changed, other than you threatening yet another member of my family as is your nature.”
Raylan’s tongue comes out and licks at his lips, “You know you're still wearing my hat.”
Boyd’s eyebrows furrow, the realization crossing his face, his mouth opens and closes a couple of times. He grits his teeth, “No, Raylan Givens.” His mouth splits from tight denial to seductive opportunity. “Though I think the saying goes, ‘wear the hat, ride the cowboy.’ And if my memory serves me right, that means I'm owed a debt.”
Raylan laughs, truly and deeply with no hint of sarcasm or exasperation. “Now who's getting sloppy, Boyd? I figured you'd come up with something more original than that.”
Boyd’s manic grin falters into a look of mock wounded pride, wide hazel eyes looking up to Raylan. “Explain to me, Deputy US Marshal, why,” Boyd wraps his hand around Raylan's right hip and presses the barrel of the gun into his left, “you went and locked the back door if your intention was not to finish what you started?”
Boyd surges up, lips and tongue bristling against the stubble under Raylan's jaw as he licks open the fine knife wound. He hums with satisfaction against Raylan's skin; he was right, Raylan still tastes like he remembered, adrenaline and gun oil, but less like Mag's moonshine and more like bourbon. The gun presses deeper into Raylan's jeans, and Boyd moves his hand to the back of Raylan's neck.
Boyd’s tongue lazily flows up to the edge of Raylan's ear, gathering salt and skin. He wants to burn the taste into his memory, store it in the part of his brain next to where he keeps the images of Raylan at nineteen. “I can keep the hat and the gun if that makes it easier for you.”
Raylan, always fast, disarms Boyd, places the gun on the counter. Both of them weaponless, the tension in the bar shifts from violence to anticipation. Raylan’s hands slip along Boyd’s belt, looking at him with blown out eyes, like if he stares hard enough he can parse through Boyd’s bullshit and read his mind.
“You can keep the hat, for now. I want it back after,” Raylan teases, his fingers finding the belt buckle and pooping it open with a click. Boyd licks his lips and looks down at Raylan's deft fingers, releasing a small breath. Raylan takes the moment to snatch the pocket watch out of the tatters of Boyd’s waist coat. In one smooth motion, Raylan flips him around so his chest is against the bar, the chain of the watch wrapping around one hand before slipping it over the other. Boyd grunts trying to push back, but Raylan has him pinned.
“Am I being arrested, Deputy Marshal? Or is this some unusually kinky foreplay?” Boyd chuckles as he strains against the chain, deliberately wriggling against Raylan's jeans. He could easily break the chain. Years down a mine shaft left him strong, but he was uncharacteristically attached to the watch. So he allows Raylan the illusion of dominance, for now.
Raylan flips him back around, eyes watching Boyd, dark with a peeking wickedness as if he was getting to unwrap a Christmas present early without permission. “Something like that,” not one to give up the game easily.
Raylan finds the knife again, twirls it around in his fingers. A crooked grin gracing his face as he runs along the seams of the man's vest. Boyd grumbles, “I would have divested myself of my clearly criminal sartorial choices if you had bothered to ask politely. But something tells me you much prefer watching me bleed a little, Raylan.” Boyd wriggles again lasciviously, pressing his cock into Raylan's through their jeans.
Raylan avoids Boyd's eyes and manic teeth, focusing on each thread snapping against the inevitable bite of honed steel as he drags the blade, ruining what's left of Boyd's precious waistcoat. “And you would know so much about that, being an outlaw and all.” Raylan tugs the metal chain around Boyd's wrists above his head, stretching him out like an animal on a rack, pressing himself into Boyd's deliberant movements. “But I'm supposed to be the lawman, remember?” He ducks his face under the brim of Boyd’s hat, <i>his</i> hat and licks across the shallow cut along Boyd's cheek.
Boyd squirms, intentionally dragging himself against Raylan, enjoying the way Raylan's breath hitches and his eyelashes flutter. “Oh, you the lawman now? Is that really who you want to be? Right now? Because your badge is on the bar, your gun is on the floor and your hat is on my head.”
“I don't think you've wanted to be a lawman since you walked into this bar.” Boyd tugs his hands against Raylan's grip on the metal chain around his wrist. He whispers, “I don't think you've wanted to be a lawman since you stepped off the flight from Miami.”
Boyd kisses him then, fierce and explosive, like a thousand pounds of emulex all set off at once. One of Raylan’s hands keeps the chain twisted around Boyd’s wrist, the other finds the side of his face. Boyd’s tongue delves into Raylan's mouth, hot against his palate, soft against the sharp edges of his teeth. Boyd moans, and Raylan takes the opportunity to lay his own claim into Boyd's mouth, pressing himself against every surface his own tongue can find. The two men were tasting each other more than kissing. A long stifled fire now burns in the bar between them as they move against each other. Boyd can’t help himself, he wants to be inside this man’s skin, wants to consume Raylan so he can remember every bit of this, in case he never gets to again.
Raylan pulls away, cheeks flushed red, as he rests his forehead against Boyd’s, breath speeding up as he looks for air. “You never shut up do you?” He states, before he pushes the vest off to the floor. The shirt follows next, sleeves catching on Boyd's wrists, but exposing his chest and shoulders. He purposefully lets the knife dip into the skin along Boyd’s bicep, blood welling up against the black ink of Boyd’s previous poor decisions, chasing after it with his tongue, the iron making him groan. Something about Boyd’s squirming against him, blood dripping down his shoulder, makes Raylan examine his own past choices, following Boyd’s accusations. Had he truly ever wanted to be a lawman? Had he done it to spite Arlo? To spite Boyd?
He tugs the shirt off Boyd’s wrists, and someone he had once considered a friend stands before him shirtless. Mouth open, eyes shadowed by the hat but always on Raylan. Raylan moves back his tongue, licking up more of the blood, going back up and biting at his neck. A strangled hiss escapes Boyd, hips moving slowly against the press of Raylan's body. Raylan groans, grinding back just as hard, <i>Fuck</i>. The room feels hazy, like it's filled with smoke, and the only clear point in his vision is Boyd.
Raylan picks up the chain and wraps it around Boyd's wrists again. Boyd struggles against the gold metal, trying to get more friction against his own aching need. “Should have known you’d be a tease. Been back for almost three years and it took you this long to be here -” Boyd gasps as Raylan bites into Boyd’s chest. “Keep on like that, you're gonna leave marks that require explanation, not like I am going to be able to direct the accusations at you, Raylan. I have a feeling this could be considered prisoner abuse.”
Raylan lifts his face up from Boyd’s chest, the indents of his teeth blooming red across Boyd’s skin. His jaw clenches and he looks at the unstoppable force that is Boyd. Did he even hear half the stuff that came out of his mouth? Raylan tugs on the chain pulling him from the counter, his other hand applying pressure to Boyd’s shoulder, drawing out a fresh stream of blood.
“And so what?” Raylan pulls again, relishing the small noises he elicits from Boyd in response to the makeshift bondage. “I’m sure you can find a perfectly reasonable explanation for these marks on your chest. Or are those harder to justify than this?” Raylan twists his hand, bringing the edge of the knife against the hateful ink on Boyd’s bicep, etching a second cut into his arm. Unable to resist the thick welling of Boyd’s life seeping out between the layers of flesh, Raylan laps at the split skin. He flicks his eyes back up to Boyd's, “Besides, this wouldn't be the first time you've made excuses for my presence in your life.”
Boyd growls and shivers, unable to resist the effect Raylan has over his physical body, but unwilling to concede any ground in the war they've been waging since birth. “Your marks have always been deeper and less superficial, except for one notable occasion. And while I must admit I don't hate…,” Raylan bites into the dark ink, stuttering Boyd's monologue, “your inventiveness, I do have my current promises and obligations to consider.”
Raylan stops cold, removes the knife, but keeps his grip on the chain. “You mean Ava.” His eyes drill like diamond tipped bits into Boyd's gaze. “You think Johnny is gonna tell? Blow up every lie you've told to that poor woman?”
Boyd glares at him, his mouth thin lipped, “I never lied to her, unlike you.” The words are short and to the point. “At least I wasn’t sleeping with my ex-wife while stringing her along.”
Raylan slaps Boyd across the face with an open hand. Boyd snaps the chain and is pushing Raylan backwards onto a table. He topples backwards, boots slipping, legs akimbo. Boyd slides into the gap between Raylan's legs, fist clenched at his side, and he glares down at the dazed man.
“You’re a real piece of work Raylan, carved out of stone like some golem figurehead. Would fuck anyone with two legs, but can’t admit when you’re wrong.” Boyd chides at him, fingers pulling the belt out of Raylan’s pants with a thwack. He loops it around Raylan’s neck and pulls the leather through the buckle, dragging the man up, metal digging into his skin. Then he's crashing into Raylan. He bites at Raylan’s lips tasting a small amount of blood coming out of them and tightens the belt around his throat.
“All I wanted was you,” Boyd whispers in between frenzied kisses, “Even with all that rage you carry in your heart, even after you shot me, after you left. I hated that you came back, acting like you’d never left, like you didn’t leave me here.”
Words are tumbling out of him, the dam which he keeps secret truths behind finally broken. Raylan grabs at Boyd’s back, pulling their bodies together, even as he gasps for air around his own belt. His right arm is covered in Boyd’s blood from where he worked at the tattoo. The words burn like cuts from a blade, but he doesn’t care anymore. Heat from Boyd’s skin is making the ever pressing arousal more noticeable between them.
“Please shut up,” Raylan groans, his hands trying to find Boyd’s pants. “Just shut up,” he begs. He doesn't want to think about the ways he's hurt Boyd under his skin. Not now when they're pressed together, Boyd holding his air hostage.
Boyd stands back and releases the belt from Raylan's neck to undo the buttons on his jeans. His fingers hesitate at the cool metal of the zipper and the insistent heat he can feel even through the heavy denim. Raylan sits up on his elbows, forehead wrinkled as he takes in Boyd’s mercifully silent figure.
Then, Raylan Givens smiles with all the brightness of the sun, branding another secret into the dingy wood paneling of the bar. Boyd laughs, weightlessly, in a way he hasn't since he was twenty years younger and pulls away to shimmy out of his black jeans and boxers. Boyd thinks Raylan's laugh as he stumbles out of his boots would best be described as a giggle. At that sound, Boyd doesn't miss the weaponry between them, so remains silent, only reflecting Raylan's smile back towards him, like the moon.
Naked and free of his shoes, Boyd crashes on top of Raylan, hands scrambling back for his button and zipper. Raylan wraps an arm around Boyd's waist and twists, switching their positions, Raylan standing and Boyd flat on his back. It's Raylan's turn to embarrass himself, ankles and knees uncooperative in his haste to match Boyd's state of undress.
Raylan and Boyd stare at each other, their eyes taking in the lifetime of changes since the last time they saw each other laid bare. Boyd’s eyes memorize the scars across Raylan's chest, some from knives, at least one a clear gunshot wound. An interesting constellation over one shoulder that Boyd knows from experience could only come from shotgun scatter shot. He stands, arm outstretched, and begins tracing across each silverskin mark on Raylan's torso.
Raylan is certain he's having an asthma attack. The air is thick and heavy with nothing but Boyd. And he can't breathe in Boyd, he's not oxygen, he's suffocating. And without oxygen a fire can't burn and Raylan doesn't know who will be left in the shadows once the fire burns out.
“Can I?” Boyd’s voice ripples across what's left of the air and shakes his head, “Would you turn your back to me, Raylan Givens?”
Raylan can feel the hesitation in Boyd's voice, the request for vulnerability more dangerous than blades or guns or sex. His better judgment balks at the request, but better judgment wouldn’t have him standing stark naked in this bar. Swallowing, he turns around, and kicks the piles of clothes away from them.
Boyd's warm palm and calloused fingers follow along the map of pain etched into Raylan's skin. He couldn't remember the last time someone he took to bed had paid them any attention. Of course Boyd would, Boyd thrives on details, needs them to breathe.
Boyd's hand trails down, stopping at a particularly raised scar on Raylan’s lower left side. He traces over it several times, trying to imprint the feeling into his memory, before moving to press his chest into the muscle of Raylan's back. Boyd lets his hands rest on Raylan's hips, gripping at the hard flesh there. It’s easy to push his body against Raylan's, hold him close enough he can feel Raylan's heartbeat quicken against his own. He tries to stifle a groan as his cock slides, dripping, between Raylan's ass cheeks.
Raylan lets out his own strangled noise and wraps his fist around himself, unable to ignore his own need. Before Raylan can move against himself, Boyd’s hand is there, gripping at his cock as he thrusts slowly between Raylan's legs, the tip nudging against Raylan's balls. Curses fall from both of their lips at the sensations. Raylan bends under the pleasure, hands trying and failing to find purchase against the smooth surface of the table as his partner continues to rut against him.
It's slow at first, Boyd taking his time to feel the weight of the man’s penis in his hand, how his body bends under Boyd’s. Words stick in his throat, coherent thoughts lost, as Boyd holds onto him, unrelenting. How many times has he thought about Raylan over the years, and wondered what he looks like in this moment. His long held fantasies about it would feel like to draw pleasure and pull need out of him finally realized.
Boyd replaces his fingers with his tongue, mapping the shallow paths of scars along Raylan's back. He never stops moving his hand along Raylan's cock, swiping precum from the tip to ease the way. “I've never forgotten,” Boyd confesses into a constellation of scar tissue between Raylan's ribs and hip, the twin of the starburst scar on the front, “what you sound like when I last had you like this.”
Raylan moans again and Boyd almost wishes Johnny would burst in, guns blazing, through the back door and put a bullet in his head, so that the last sound he ever hears is Raylan making that noise for him. Boyd shifts, moving his hand off of Raylan’s back and between his legs to collect his own wetness before returning to grip Raylan tightly, all the easier with the additional lubrication.
Raylan's hips buck into Boyd's hand, the fire within him burns low, more smoke than flame. He wants to lose himself here, become nothing but the honed edge of a knife, valued and maintained, but only for a specific purpose, useful, for <i>him</i>. “Boyd…” Raylan warns, the heat in his gut, the pressure behind his eyes threatening to break.
Boyd speeds up slightly, his own pleasure put on the back burner as he uses his other hand to cup Raylan’s balls. Rolling in his fingers as he focuses the twist of wrist at the head of the man’s cock. Boyd can feel every flex of Raylan's muscles, the pounding of his heart through his chest as he climbs closer to release. Boyd wants to swallow the grunts Raylan makes as his hips fuck into Boyd’s slick and heavy hand. Boyd’s in his own haze, trying to tattoo those sounds into the folds of his brain matter, wanting to hold onto every sensation so he might draw on them for the rest of his life.
Raylan’s body is tense, his eyes rolling in the back of his head. He had thought about this for so long, on many lonely nights after Winnoa left, when nothing else managed to release his frustrations. Sitting there with one hand on his cell, and one hand on his cock. Wanting to hear Boyd’s voice but never actually calling. He’s unable to hold back the litany of whimpers, so close to the edge, but resisting the desire to tumble off, never wanting this sensation to end.
“Boyd,” He grunts out again, the one time he wants the insufferable prick to speak and he’s silent, “Fuck,”
“Let it go Raylan,” Boyd’s voice is wrecked, begging, his hips pressing into the giving flesh of Raylan’s ass. “Want to - need to hear how you sound cumming under me.”
Raylan’s fingers grip into the edge of the table hard enough to splinter the plastic coating, howling as he releases into Boyd's hand, coating him in his thick spend. It’s too much, his eyes squeezing shut as Boyd keeps working him until he’s shivering, knees buckling. Boyd works him slowly until Raylan bucks, trying to pull away, oversensitive but trapped under Boyd’s body. He reluctantly removes his sticky hand as Raylan struggles to stay upright, stars dancing in front of his eyes.
Boyd lets go of him, watching the usually always uptight man shudder as he leans heavily on the chair. Boyd strokes his own cock as he takes him in, remembering the sound Raylan made the heat in his stomach twisting in knots. Raylan slides to the floor turning towards him, eyes glazed from post orgasmic haze, mouth slightly open as he looks up at Boyd. Boyd smiles as he raises the hand covered in cum to his mouth and licks at it.
Raylan turns to look at Boyd and can’t believe his eyes. Boyd stands there naked, tongue laving against the webbing of his fingers, sucking Raylan’s cum off his hand, stroking himself with his other. His eyes are half lidded under the hat as he stares down at Raylan's face. Raylan once again ignores his better judgment and gives into his impulses, shuffling over on his knees to settle between Boyd’s legs. Raylan drags Boyd’s hand away, replacing it with his own. His tongue darts out to lap at the free-flowing dribble at the head. Boyd tastes expectedly salty and interestingly like moonshine. He doesn’t think about it much, choosing to focus on opening his mouth and taking him deeper. Boyd’s face is red, eyebrows furrowed together in concentration as he grips Raylans hair.
“Fuck,” Boyd whispers as he moves himself in and out of the Raylan’s mouth, testing how much Raylan is willing to give. His eyes unfocus as he swallows Boyd down. Boyd thinks he may be dreaming, his brain challenging the vision of Raylan Fucking Givens on his knees, mouth wrapped like velvet around his dick.
“Oh, Raylan,” Boyd whispers, as if he's praying, like he's found God again against Raylan's tongue, between his teeth. Boyd’s fingers tighten in Raylan's hair, knuckles turning white. “I would truly be the liar you believe me to be if I didn't admit I've imagined this more times than I can rightfully give number to.”
Raylan hums and swallows, sucking Boyd in deeper as confessions fall from Boyd’s lips. His teeth scrape lightly against sensitive flesh and Boyd's hips thrust against his cheekbones. Raylan bites back the grin threatening to split his face wide and swirls his tongue, a silent demand for Boyd to repeat the motion.
He loosens his grip, slides his hand down Raylan's skull to the nape of his neck, fingers brushing against the shorter hairs at the edges, before pressing bruises into the scar on Raylan's shoulder. Boyd’s toes curl against the wooden floor, splinters cracking into his feet, but his entire world narrows to the heat of Raylan's throat, the motion of his tongue, the graze of his teeth. Boyd answers Raylan's plea and repeats the motion of his hips, steadying Raylan by the shoulder and forces himself deeper down Raylan's willing throat.
“You taste the same as I remembered, Raylan, did you know that? Some things never change.” Boyd strokes Raylan's cheek with his free hand, swiping away a single tear from Raylan's watering eyes and bringing it up to his lips.
Raylan doesn't stop moving, the words wash over him, spurring him onwards, quickening his motions. He would say the same, the taste,the feel, the way he spoke, it all felt so familiar. It's as if he had never left, like the twenty years of lost time between them has also burned away. He pushes himself up, pressing his face into the flesh under Boyd’s belly button, nose brushing against the hair sprinkling his abdomen. Boyd’s mouth falls open and his eyes roll back as his hips stutter. Raylan pulls backwards, needing air and one hand works at the base, the other reaching to press teasingly against Boyd's hole. He can feel Boyd’s release splash against the back of his throat and takes down every drop. Boyd moans his name and Raylan gags slightly, hating that his eyes flutter, obscuring Boyd from his vision as he swallows. Boyd pulls himself out, his thumb swiping over Raylan’s abused lips, the last of his cum dripping across his cheek.
“Could you be any prettier,” Boyd said, tongue going over his lips. “Fuck, Raylan. Why did we wait so long?”
Raylan grins, feeling dizzy, the world fuzzy around the edges, and leans his head into Boyd’s hand. He knows the afterglow will fade momentarily and he will leave. Part of him wants to stay, kneeling at Boyd’s feet, forehead pressed into his thigh. But the weight of the world returns to Raylan's shoulders and the smoke in Raylan's chest turns back into flame.
Boyd frees his hands from Raylan's face and shoulder, and moves over to the pile of their ruined clothing. He sorts through the pieces, placing Raylan’s clothes beside him. Finally, he removes the hat, turning it in his hands with an unreadable expression on his face before setting it down beside Raylan. He cups Raylan's face with warm hands, tipping his chin up.
“I’m gonna go find a shirt that isn't cut to shreds and open the doors before any more business associates start asking too many questions about why your car is outside and the door is locked,” Boyd says, hiding his thoughts behind his hundred watt smile. “Don’t go anywhere now Marshal, we aren't finished here yet.”
Raylan watches him leave, and is up on his feet. A twisted knot has crawled into this chest cavity and it’s trying to break out of his throat. He dresses like the place is on fire, grabbing his gun and badge before rushing to the door. He looks behind him at the pieces of Boyd’s clothes, , the two half empty glasses on the bar, the droplets of blood splattered on the bartop and floor. He grits his teeth, memorizes the scene and walks out into the daylight.
Part two
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Please let us both know if you enjoyed it! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Much more is coming😈 Each chapter will be spaced out as we write!
Pairing: Bottom!Assistant!Wanda Maximoff x Top!CEO!GN!Reader
Summary: R has had their eyes on Wanda ever since she became their assistant, slowly but surely R gets Wanda out of her bubble. It isn’t until a certain meeting when R finally gets Wanda and fulfills their deepest desires with her
(18+) Warnings: Power play (very so slightly dark), Daddy kink, Choking, Hair pulling, Degradation, Praise, Power kink, Fingering, Cunnilingus, Edging, Denial, Name calling
Words: 3915
A/N: This is a fun cowritten fic written by @loqov and @ladyylesbian . neither of us have really cowritten anything before so this was fun to do
you do not have permission to translate/repost my works anywhere! all mistakes are mine and mine alone. likes, comments, and reblogs are always welcome & appreciated <3
Glancing out your office window on the thirtieth floor usually provides you with stunning views to rid your mind of the boredom that comes with all day business meetings, but today there were dark grey clouds filling the sky as rain hit the glass. Your thoughts caught up in the disappointment of your lack of entertainment until a soft knock sounds across your greyscale designed office.
Black heels step into your downward view, “Pardon my interruption, Mx Y/L/N, your meeting is in 10 minutes” the red head says quietly, looking down. Hearing her sentence end, you raise your eyes off the floor to see she was glancing down as well.
Bringing your finger under her chin to lift her head, ”I’d prefer it if you looked at me”, shocked the Sokovian, raised her gaze and connected her eyes with yours.
“Already you’re being good.” Your thumb slowly moving over her bottom lip causing a chill to run down the young woman’s spine at your words, a small and satisfied smirk appearing on your face. You pulled her lip a little to tease the woman more before letting go and leaning back on the chair with your arms resting on the armrests and bringing your hands together.
“Who do we have today? Besides your cute self.” your eyes roaming her body, making the red head become nervous and tucking her hair behind her ear, trying to avoid your gaze.
“Um, we- uh-” the woman stutters. She blinks quickly a couple of times, clearing her throat, looking down at the iPad in her hands, “You have a meeting with Bishop Security company about merging the two companies together.”
Your eyes locked onto her, the intensity of your stare causing the Sokovian to shift nervously between her feet. Bringing your hand up to your face, your fingers pressing in and pulling down towards your chin before poking your tongue out to slowly run it over your upper teeth before tilting your head with a wide smirk.
The red head’s eyes dart around the room trying to figure out if she’s reading into your actions. A final quick glance back in your direction is all it takes for Wanda to notice your smirk. She would be lying if she said it didn’t do anything to her. You enjoying her position only served to cloud the woman’s mind further. But she couldn’t allow herself to think about this, so she shakes her head to try and clear her mind while looking away from you.
The screeching of a chair sounds throughout the office as you stand up, unbuttoning your blazer, “We ought to start heading to the meeting then.”
Leading the both of you towards the elevator, walking a few steps ahead of her before arriving in front of the steel doors. Your eyes pulled toward her pale, thin fingers watching as she presses ‘down’ to signal for an elevator.
Walking first into the elevator and standing with your back against the wall, observing as Wanda finds her spot in front of the doors as she looks down at her iPad. Looking her up and down, curiosity gets the better of you. You walk forward and lean your head over her shoulder to look at the screen of her iPad. The redhead’s breathing hitches as she feels how close to her you are and that something was pressing hard against her ass, making her close her eyes and hum quietly to herself.
“Are you okay there, darling?” your breath brushing her ear, her knees buckling.
She didn’t need to look to know how satisfied with yourself you are now. Her eyes shoot open and she moves away from you. Your hand softly placed against her hip making sure she still could feel you. Smirking at her uneven breathing answers your question.
Gathering a deep breath the Sokavian says, “About the company, you will need to agree upon naming and staff details”, the calmness of her tone surprising even to her.
Your other hand finds her hip as you tighten your hold upon both. Pulling slightly to signal to her to step further into you. She moves slightly back, feeling the bulge push against her even more.
“Did they say anything about the number of people they want to continue after the merger?” your voice radiates focus and seriousness, opposite of how your hands are behaving.
Bringing your eyes up from the iPad to look in her direction you see her bite down on her lip, rolling ever so slightly. At the feeling of your look, she tries to move away, but your hands only move further forward, keeping her in place as she answers, “N-no, they haven’t said.”
Your mouth inches closer to her ear, “Well, let’s welcome our guests then.”
In a second, you take your hands off her body exiting the elevator as she softly whimpers at the loss of your warmth. Wanda stands there in a daze before snapping out of her thoughts right before the elevator doors closed again, quickly catching up with you.
┉
The red head shifts from hip to hip leaning against the corner aiming to find a comfortable spot, her feet sore from standing still for an hour. Huffing, puffing, and biting her lip trying to hold back an inappropriate comment about the length of this merger meeting.
Wanda was bored out her mind until another intern turned assistant piped into the conversation of their bosses, “With the merge of Bishop Security and Empire Security, I think Bishop Security should make up 60% of the new staffing and should continue as the name post merge.”
A snicker slips past her lips but is silenced when she notices the slight head turn towards her direction from her boss. Straightening her back and planting both feet on the ground, the Sokovian brings the iPad up to cover her face as she mumbles, “60% and name credit? A laughable request after Y/N is saving your asses. If Bishop wants more money then they should invest in securing their own resources.”
Unaware to young woman, you smirk at her quiet words, interrupting the gentleman, “I think 60% and taking the name is a little much if you won’t even invest in better tracking systems for your resources.”
┉
As more moments passed the red head grew increasingly irritated. The second the last business woman left, Wanda stood up from her spot, quickly walking up to you at the long table. Leaning back in your chair with an open-mouthed smirk watching every one of her moves, the sway of her hips, enjoying the determination written all over her face.
Wanda’s Sokovian accent rings in her words, “You can’t just take someone’s ideas and pass them off as your own!” your fingers slowly drumming on the desk as you slightly tilt your head when she stops in front of you. The satisfaction was only rising in your chest when you sent her a sweet smile in response and saw the tiniest of glares that she threw your way.
“You’re too shy to even speak up” you replied calmly, wanting to rile her up. Her hold is tightening on the iPad while her scowl deepens. However, her small reaction wasn’t enough for you, so you place your hand flat on the table and slowly run your fingertips along the wooden surface as you move your upper body towards her, “You can’t even look anyone in the eyes. You couldn’t do better.”
Raising her voice, the sound of a blunt slam echoed throughout the room as the iPad made contact with the desk, “I can do more than you think,” clenching her jaw and her fists while squinting her eyes at you, “I’m good at my job.”
“Yeah?” A satisfied smirk appeared on your face, “You’d do anything to prove that, huh? That you’re good?” your focus locked on her eyes.
Gritting her teeth, Wanda let the words pass her lips, lowly speaking without losing the sweet tone of her voice, her finger pointing at the desk, looking right into your eyes, “Anything for any price.”
It’s then you know that you’ve got Wanda exactly where you want her.
In a single swift motion, you reach forward with your hand and wrap it around her throat, pulling her face closer to yours, “Then be a good girl and do it.”
Her breathing hitched and her mouth falls open. Before the Sokovian can say anything, you are already on your feet and bending her over your desk with force. You hold her wrists together, pressing them to her back while she groans, “Can you do that, sweetheart?”
As you hear her moaning softly, you move your hips forward and press the strap against her ass, firmly, “Or has that sweet mind of yours already gone blank?”
Her eyes close and her mouth opens wider. Wrapping your free hand around her hair you move her face to the side, letting yourself look at her profile.
You inch your mouth closer to her ear, whispering, “Incapable of thinking.”
She pushes her ass against you, pressing it harder onto the bulge in your pants. A quiet whimper leaves her lips as she aches for more friction, “Please.”
Pulling back your hips, her whine impossible to ignore, you say slowly, enjoying the way she tries to get you closer, “Do you need help with something?”
“Please.” Her breathing becoming more shallow and you take a moment to watch how she grinds against your strap.
Fake confusion lacing your voice, “Please what?”
Wanda lets out another pathetic moan at your words while she pressed her cheek harder into the table. Her lips were parted and you could see how her body rose with the deep breaths she took, “Please, help me. I need your help.”
You straighten up while lowly chuckling, poking your tongue out of your mouth, and slowly running it over your teeth. Your eyes give their full attention to the woman beneath you, your hand left her hair and moved to her leg, slowly running your fingertips up the back of her thigh.
“You are not as innocent as you seem, huh?”
The anticipation filling her is so evident and you couldn’t get enough of the sight you are presented with. The best thing is that it was only the beginning. You were barely able to control the thoughts of her and everything you could do to her since you met her; now the thought of what awaits you is making your mind run wild.
Your hand moves higher and higher as you raise her dress, taking your time before you reach her ass. Her body slightly jumps forward equal in surprise and pleasure. A moan passes her lips when you deliver a slap to her butt, “Dirty little slut.”
The even louder sound you got out of the woman because of your words made you smirk and raise your eyebrow, “Oh, is that it?”
You caress the pink tinted skin before lowering your hand and going to the place she’d wanted you in for so long now.
“You like being a slut,” cupping her pussy, you start rubbing her through her silk underwear, causing another sound of pleasure to escape her mouth, “You like it when you’re fucked like a whore?”
Pressing your hand harder onto the red head’s pussy, she mumbles inaudibly and scratches the desk with her nails, “You.”
Hooking your thumbs over her underwear, “What me, hun? Use your words.”
Pulling the soft, shiny piece of material down her legs, you start getting on your knees as you lightly kiss and bite her thighs.
“I want to be fucked like a whore by you” she softly breathes out.
When your mouth finds her cunt and your tongue lightly licks it. Her underwear wraps around her ankles and you get rid of them before grabbing her legs and nipping at the skin.
“I need you, please” her fist tightens while she scratches the desk harder.
Deciding to give her a bit of what she wants you separate her legs from one another. Raising your hands and using your fingers to spread her folds before poking out your tongue and slowly licking up her pussy just with just the tip.
The woman hums quietly and moves her hips the tiniest bit, “More, I need more,” the pleas continue to spill out of her mouth, “Please, give me more.”
Going up to her clit, you lick lightly before putting pressure and circling it with your tongue.
“You are a needy little thing, aren’t you?” you grip her ass, firm, teasing her with your tongue as you go down to her entrance and running your tongue around.
A frustrated cry sounds through her lips, the desperate tone floods her voice, “Just fuck me already. I need you to use me, please, just use me.”
Her words spur something in you, so you harshly suck on her cunt before pushing your tongue in her.
“Oh, fuck!” you hear Wanda gasp out loudly.
Her hand flies to the edge of the table, gripping it tightly as your tongue goes deeper. Your hands kept her legs in place, keeping them far apart. Sliding your tongue in and out faster with each push.
The sounds she makes only encourage you more as you move your tongue from side to side, occasionally twirling it, not stopping your movements for even a second.
“Shit, shit” she whimpers, letting herself focus on the feeling of you inside her.
The taste of her on your tongue is better than anything else and you have no idea how you could’ve gone for so long without it. But now that you tasted her, it wouldn’t be the last time.
You raise your hand and use your fingers to press on the woman’s clit before slowly moving it in a circular motion.
“Fuck” the redhead moans out and you feel her moving against your mouth.
A harsh slap to the back of Wanda’s thigh with a deeper push of your tongue elicits another sinful sound from the Sokovian. You push faster before pulling out of her and harshly sucking on her cunt.
“I think I’ll just have to add you to my meal list” you say standing up.
Her clit still had your attention, circling it slowly with your fingers, “Such good food to have every day,” you slap her ass and bite your bottom lip, enjoying the way her eyes closed even tighter at your actions, “It’d be a crime not to have it.”
Caressing her ass cheek, you apply a bit more pressure on her clit before removing your finger and running two of your fingers through Wanda’s folds. Her pathetic cries getting cut off before she could even let them out as you push two of your fingers into her.
More of her beautiful and louder sounds passed her lips, “Yes!” her grip on the edge of the desk tightened as you started gradually increasing the pace.
“Look at you,” pushing your fingers deeper while you grab her hair with your free hand and tangle your fingers in it, “Acting like a pathetic bitch,” she moans at your words and the feeling you give her, “It’s all that you are, huh? A little whore that wants to be used, isn’t it right?”
The woman beneath you quickly nods, her mouth wide open and eyes closed shut. You tug on her hair and lean closer.
“Be good and answer” your words come out in a harsh whisper that makes a shiver run down the Sokovian’s spine.
“Yes, just a little whore. I need you to use me so badly.” at her words, you push your fingers deeper and start moving them faster, “I’m close, I’m so close.”
You pull her hair rougher causing groans of pleasure, “You want to cum on my fingers? Show me how much of a slut you are?”
“Yes! Fuck, please, can I cum? Please.”
“A complete whore, but still with manners. Cum, sweetheart.”
You thrust in her faster, feeling her tightly clenching around your fingers before a loud moan bounces off the walls as her orgasm hits, “Oh God, fuck!”
You don’t stop your actions, slowing down a little as you angle your fingers and start pressing a different spot.
“Daddy!” a loud scream sounded throughout the room.
As the red head’s words fill your ears, something in you snaps, quickly pulling out, you lift her body and turn her around before making her lay on her back. Spreading her legs wide as she whines at the loss of you, a choked moan rips through her throat.
“You want me to fuck you? You want Daddy to make a mess out of this pussy?” you thrust harder as you lower yourself and start sucking on the woman’s neck, biting and licking.
“Fuck me, yes! Oh my God” her moans filling the room.
A loud knock on the door pulls the woman’s attention and you feel her tense. Smirking to yourself, you didn’t stop the movements and raised your mouth to her ear, “Be a good slut for me and keep quiet.”
Leaving a light kiss on her ear, you straighten your body and focus your eyes on the red head beneath you.
“Yes?” you respond to the knock.
“Mx Y/L/N, I couldn’t find your assistant, so I’m here to inform you about your business lunch” raising your eyebrow at the new information.
“What business dinner?” you ask while thrusting harder in the Sokovian, tilting your head and silently asking if she forgot to tell you.
However, she was too focused on the building pleasure which you were gifting her, so you wrap your hand around her throat to gather her attention.
You move your faces closer to one another, “If your slutty ass forgot about it, Daddy won’t be so nice to you anymore” you seethed out through your teeth.
Her eyes shoot open and she can see the seriousness on your face.
“With Stark Industries,” the shakiness easily heard through the young man’s voice, “Mx Y/L/N. You are supposed to meet with their CEO and other representatives at Steakhouse Downtown.”
You hum to yourself while slowing down your movements. Wanda’s disapproving whines quickly silenced as you squeezed Wanda’s neck again while moving your fingers in a scissor motion, “What time?”
The red head arches her back some, pressing her head more against the desk, “5 pm, Mx Y/L/N.”
Wanda couldn’t hold it in as you speed up your fingers and a louder moan filled the room.
The young man hesitantly asks, “Um, is everything okay?”
“Everything is perfectly fine,” you give the woman a warning look before tightening your hold on her neck, “I said quiet, whore. Don’t make me punish you for your disobedience.”
The woman below you starts to squirm and quickly moves her hand to her mouth to bite down on it when she feels you pushing hard on her clit, “Ah, ah, take the hand away. If you’re a good girl like you say, you’ll manage without it.”
Reluctantly, she lets go of her hand and switches it for trapping her bottom lip between her teeth.
Smirking as you ask, “Is there anything else I should know?”
Your thumb running circles on her clit, you start increasing the pace and changing from wide circles to tighter ones. The red head’s teeth sinking into her lip so hard that it can draw out blood.
“No, that is all, Mx Y/L/N.”
Wanda’s sharp breathing and her shaking legs told you enough. As you hear the young man’s voice start walking back down the hallway, smirking to yourself, “Just a second.”
The woman met you immediately with a pleading look, “Where am I supposed to meet them? I want to make sure my memory doesn’t disappoint me.”
As her orgasm continues to build up and is nearing too much, she knows you are doing this on purpose, “Uh, the steakhouse downtown, Mx Y/L/N.”
Humming to yourself as you deepen your thrusts and curl up your fingers, continue your conversation as Wanda’s eyes roll to the back of her head and her mouth hangs wide open, “And what hour? 6 pm?”
“No, Mx Y/L/N, it’s 5 pm.”
You tilt your head at the woman when you see the desperation in her. She was on the verge of cumming and you were more than curious to see how long she could last, “I could’ve sworn it was 6 pm.”
Her legs starting to shake more violently now as her eyes glazed over. You squeeze her neck and she arches her back more, letting you hit a new spot that makes her hand fly to your forearm.
“If that’s all, then thank you, you can go,” you said to the man, watching how her nails dug into your skin.
“Yes, Mx Y/L/N. Have a nice day.”
The sound of footsteps start becoming faint and as soon as there is complete silence, you use your fingers on her clit to quickly flick, “Good little toy. Being so quiet for me,” seeing her pleading look, you decide to make it easier for her, “Let your words out, sweetheart. I wanna hear you moan my name.”
“Daddy! Fuck!” her screams ringing through the whole room as she chants your name. “Oh God, please, Daddy.”
She can barely hold back her orgasm, the pleasure becoming too much and you can see she needs the release, “You wanna cum like a whore?”
“Yes! Yes, fuck, yes!” words rushing out of her mouth, “I wanna cum for Daddy.”
“Yeah? Show me how good you are? How well I fuck you?”
Digging her nails in further until her knuckles went white, “Please. I’m your good little slut. Let me cum for you, please, Daddy.”
“Then cum, whore.”
With a few more pushes and a curl of your fingers, Wanda cums with a loud cry as you squeeze her neck. Her legs violently shaking, her eyes tightly closed, and her mouth wide open as she releases.
As you lean over the Sokovian, watching her body flinch with remnants of her orgasm, you run your hand up from her neck to the side of her face and back down to her chin. Then carefully you pull your hand away from her pussy.
Gently placing your fingers on her lips, “Clean them.”
Almost silent moans hidden behind the woman’s lips before she parts them and takes your fingers in her mouth. Twirling her tongue around and between the fingers in her mouth, humming.
“Now that’s a good-ow!”
Wanda bites down on your fingers, you quickly pull them out of her mouth and bring your hand to your chest before grabbing her neck again and pulling her up off the table. Your breathing fanning over the red head’s face as her heart races with what you’ll do next.
Slowly a smirk takes over your face, “Looks like you still need to prove you can be better, so I’ll see you for dinner tonight at this meeting you forgot about.”
Right as the Sokovian begins to protest you cut her off, “Oh and wear something short. I’ll want to eat again.”
Giving a quick and firm slap to her ass, winking at her before stepping back and walking out of the room.
Breathless, Wanda falls back against the table using her arms for support, “Shit.”
All the way back in July (she finished on my birthday!) I commissioned @anotherwellkeptsecret for a scene in mine and @theladydrgn's current fic you know i'll never be lonely (you're my only one). Funnily enough, we hadn't even fully written the scene by then 🤣 But we already knew what was in store and, just, I wanted to see everyone at this moment where Warlock officially accepts that Aziraphale really isn't going anywhere 💖
So here is the lineart and the colored version! Enjoy 💖💖💖💖
