i wanted to fall in love, and he happened to be in the way, teen wolf, chris/kate
If either of them thinks about it, really thinks about it, then they're not surprised, really, that they fell together like this. It's natural, organic [forbidden, taboo, a million other words that makes them sound like Adam and Eve. It's a good thing Kate doesn't believe in god, hasn't for a long time].
The first time it happened, Kate was sixteen, Chris was older, too old, really, but it was Kate's first kill and they were high from blood and adrenaline and the coke they drank in the car, warm and flat but neither of them cared. They were hugging and then they were more, joined at the mouth and the hips, his hand on the nape of her neck, her hand fisted in the front of his shirt. They're both sweaty, sticky, but neither of them care even a little bit. Kate tastes of sugar and rust and family, and he's a little freaked out that that doesn't freak him out, really. They don't fuck, not that time, but when they get in the car, ready to drive back to the house where their father waits, she smiles, and kisses the blood off his lower lip where she bit him.
The next time it happens, they do fuck, against the wall in an alley, and she laughs, whispers clichés into his ear and paints nail marks on his back and shoulders, bruises on his neck. He growls, pushing her against the wall so hard there are scrapes from the brick across her lower back, and plum coloured star-burst bruises on her hips. They don't ever talk about it, not really, don't feel the need to. It is what is it and why do they need to define something that felt as inevitable as this did? Chris has looked after his little sister until she was twelve, old enough to hold a gun, wield a knife, take command of the family when their mother passes away two months shy of Chris' eighteenth birthday. Cancer, not werewolf.
Now, as the matriarch of the Argent clan, Kate looks after him, in all the ways it matters. She's beautiful, Chris knows this, tells her every chance he gets and she flips her hair, smiles that Argent smile of hers and shows him just how beautiful. He tells her she could have anyone, sometimes doesn't understand why she would want him, unshaven and scarred and so much older than her, but that makes her smile too, a strange smile that doesn't reach her eyes. Those nights, she shows him just how beautiful she finds him.
They lie in the bed afterwards, covered in sweat and bruises and beads of blood because when an Argent loves someone, they love them hard and fast and rough, love them the way they live their lives, and that's when Kate tells him she doesn't want anyone else, because who else could live like this, love like this? Only an Argent, and besides, who else is there? They move every couple of months, following the full moon and their information, scribbled down in a cracked leather journal that smells of the centuries it's been used for. She doesn't want anyone else, and she doesn't need anyone else, but she's terrified of admitting this, even to him, even like this, so she tells him there's no point in having anyone else. Who's going to move across the country a half dozen times a year for love?
When he thinks she's asleep, chest moving up and down, he whispers in her ear, whispers I would, and pretends not to see the slow smile spread across her face.
[sometimes, when she knows he's asleep, she whispers I love you, and pretends she does see a smile, just a small one, just enough for her to rest her head on his chest and close her eyes.]
