"You really can’t cook, can you?” - Stiles and Derek
have some words written while not entirely sober
1k under the cut
Stiles is pretty sure he’s never getting this smell out of his clothes, or his apartment for that matter. It would be downright embarrassing, starting a fire while cooking dinner and all that. If it wasn’t completely mortifying thanks to the fact that his neighbor is 1) all kinds of hot, 2) a volunteer firefighter who is more than happy to educate Stiles on cooking safety dos and don’ts, and 3) ridiculously adorable looking when woken up from a nap thanks to the apartment building’s fire alarm going off. Oh. And because Stiles owns a freaking diner downtown so he knows, you know, all about cooking safely and not starting freaking fires. He wasn’t even making a fancy multi-course meal or complicated dish. No.
Stiles set off the damn fire alarms in the entire building making himself some mac and cheese. Not even homemade mac and cheese. No. After the week he had he was going for cheap, boxed, milk and cheese powder mac and cheese.
And he set it on fire. Because this is his life.
“You really can’t cook, can you?” Hot neighbor asks, arms crossed as they stand next to each other in their parking lot.
“Nothing I say right now will change your mind considering the number of times we’ve done this in the last month and the smoke that was coming out of my window so, you know, whatever. Sure. Fine. I can’t cook to save my life.”
Hot neighbor raises his eyebrows at Stiles’ tone but not even that is enough to make Stiles do more than shrug in his general direction despite the fact that normally Stiles would be flailing a little at the attention. Because he doesn’t really preen or anything like that. He flails. It’s not a pretty reaction but it’s the only one he’s ever had so he’s learned to live with it.
“It’s not much but when they let us back in if you want you can come over and have some of my leftovers. My sister was supposed to visit last night but had to cancel so I have a lot of food.”
“Deal,” Stiles says. He doesn’t even care what the leftovers are. It could be raw onions and overcooked steak for all he cares so long as he doesn’t have to cook it himself.
Stiles waves sheepishly at Danny when he walks out of the apartment building and shakes his head at Stiles. Honestly Stiles blames the overly sensitive smoke detectors more than anything. Those coupled with the fact that by the time he gets home he’s ready to fall asleep on his feet make for a lot of Danny shaking his head at Stiles.
“All clear,” Danny calls out.
Fifteen minutes later Stiles is sitting in his hot neighbor’s apartment staring down at a plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes and trying to understand how the man standing on the other side of the kitchen is real. Because he can’t be hot and sweet and a volunteer firefighter and be able to cook this well and be real. He’s got to be some sort of figment of Stiles’ overworked imagination. Or something.
Hot neighbor — Derek, he finds out a few awkward minutes later — just stares at him when he says as much out loud. Then again he might be staring because Stiles hasn’t stopped eating, or talking, since that first bite where he was speechless for a good forty-some seconds. Because damn Derek can cook.
“This is the best thing I’ve eaten in weeks,” Stiles groans as he takes his last bite. “Seriously, dude.”
“Don’t call me dude,” Derek grumbles and even that almost seems right out of his dreams.
“Should I call you sir instead?”
Derek blushes and Stiles slouches down in his chair with a grin. Okay so maybe this whole almost setting his kitchen on fire thing might not be the worst thing to happen in the world. Nice.
—
Erica pokes her head into the diner’s kitchen.
“Someone at the counter wants to talk to you.”
“If it’s another mom that’s angry and claiming I’m being racist for not having a kid’s menu again I swear to everything holy I quit.”
“Still not sure how that was racist,” Boyd says from the prep area.
“Me either!”
“No,” Erica interrupts before he can rile himself up. “Just a couple of guys who said they wanted to compliment you in person.”
Oh. Well. That wasn’t so bad.
He asks Boyd to take over the last couple things on the grill as he follows Erica through the door.
And almost turns right back around when he sees Danny sitting at the counter with a grin on his face.
“There he is,” Danny says loudly before Stiles can turn and run. “The best chef I know. As long as he’s cooking anywhere but his own apartment.”
Derek looks up from his phone and nearly drops it on the counter when he spots Stiles.
“How, exactly, are you such a disaster that you nearly set your apartment on fire while cooking a dozen times in the last month yet you apparently are a cook at one of the most popular diners in town?” Derek raises his eyebrows and Stiles flails a little, nearly smacking Erica. She deftly avoids him, used to him by now, and leans on the counter to watch.
“Oh he’s not just a cook,” Erica practically purrs. Derek looks at her expectantly. “He’s the head cook and he owns this place. Over ninety percent of the menu items are his recipes and he cooks the lunch and dinner rushes almost every day.”
“And yet,” Danny says.
“Shut up, Danny.”
“Nope.”
“Can’t cook to save your life, huh?”
“Just… shut up, dude.”
“I told you. Don’t call me dude.”
“And you never answered last time: should I call you sir?”
Derek slides over a piece of paper and grins at Stiles. “How about you just call me and we’ll go from there?”
“I don’t care about tradition, you try and get me to kiss you under the mistletoe and I will punch you” - Jackson
some more shenanigans related to this prompt and this prompt
1k under the cut
click here to read on my blog instead of the dash
“Come on, Jackson. It’s tradition.”
“I don’t care about tradition, you try and get me to kiss you under the mistletoe and I will punch you.”
Normally Stiles has no problem letting Jackson fight his own battles. Hell more often than not he actively ignores Jackson’s battles and lets Jackson drown in his own hubris a little bit before he even thinks about stepping in. To be fair Jackson does the same for him. It’s one of the many compromises they’ve come to over the years. Which is vital for the whole not strangling each other in their sleep thing they have going on. Which they’ve managed to not do for almost eight years now which is pretty impressive if you ask him. Considering one of their most memorable high school experiences together is still the whole restraining order ordeal.
Anyway.
Normally he’d just leave Jackson over by the snack table to fend off the lady batting her eyes at him like some sort of cartoon character. But Jackson’s already had a shitty week and Stiles hasn’t been able to help with much of it at all and he’s really feeling like playing the knight in shining armor. Or, rather, knight in button-up shirt with the sleeves carefully rolled up tucked into a pair of fitted slacks because Jackson dressed him for this almost semi-professional event. But whatever. He can wield his wicked sharp tongue in this as easily as a flannel and jeans.
“I thought you were everyone’s type,” Jackson’s admirer damn near coos at him as Stiles sidles up to the other side of the table and glances over the choices. Peter may have spent plenty of money on fancy shit for this little holiday party of his but he also made sure to include Stiles’ favorite sugar cookies and the chocolate toffee that Jackson loves and he can almost guarantee that the sugar cookies are his mom’s recipe and the toffee is the Hale family secret recipe.
“Just because he’s everyone’s type doesn’t mean he wants just anyone’s tongue down his throat,” Stiles says as he reaches for a cookie and, yep, definitely his mom’s recipe. He doesn’t even want to know what Peter did to convince his dad to make them.
“Um. Private conversation.”
Stiles snorts. “Um. No. Not when you’re having it in a public setting and speaking loud enough I could hear it from five feet away even with the general chatter of the party going on around us.”
The lady huffs and reaches out to tap Jackson’s forearm a couple times before resting her hand on it.
“Jackson. Do you want to get rid of this guy so we can continue our private discussion?”
Stiles blinks in surprise. He would have assumed that anyone who had an invitation to Peter’s party would know, or know of, Stiles.
“Hey, Jax?”
“Yes, Stiles?”
“I’m gonna tell her.”
“You’re not going to tell her.”
“Why not?”
Jackson nods past Stiles. “Because I think Peter is going to tell her.”
“Peter Hale,” Stiles says with a grin as Peter steps up beside him. “The man who is not my step-dad only because polyamorous marriages are not legal in our state. How’s it going?”
“Well,” Peter drawls. “It’s come to my attention that I haven’t been by to see how Jackson is doing tonight. It would be rather uncouth of me to let my favorite work associate go the entire night without my presence.”
“I’m your only work associate,” Jackson replies. “You literally have zero other people working for or with you.”
“That’s because most people are drab and mediocre at best.” Peter smiles. “Also your husband refused to work for me.”
“I am an independent man who does not need his husband’s boss who is also his dad and step-dad’s boyfriend to give him a job thank you very much.”
“Are you implying I need my father-in-law and step-father-in-law’s boyfriend to give me a job?”
“No, babe. I would never imply that.” Stiles winks at him. “I’d say it straight to your face.”
“Peter. I think I want a divorce.”
“We can work on that when you’re on company time.” Peter’s amused gaze flickers between them and then returns to the lady. “Remind me who you are again? Were you on the guest list?”
The lady swallows a few times and slowly drops her hand from Jackson’s arm.
“I think I should be going,” she mutters as she turns on her heel and hurries away.
“Next time I’m hiring out the department as security.”
Stiles snorts. “Good luck getting Dad to agree to letting his men play security guard.”
“Oh don’t you worry, Sweetheart. I have my ways of getting your father to do things for me.”
“Yep. Nope. You talking about doing things with my dad is where I draw the line.” He steps around the table and kisses Jackson’s cheek. “Will you punch me if I ask to meet you under the mistletoe,” he murmurs against Jackson’s skin.
“I haven’t decided yet.” Jackson turns and presses a quick kiss to Stiles’ lips. “I guess you’ll have to take a chance on it. See how lucky you are later.”
“Oh I think I’m gonna be pretty lucky tonight.”
“Me too,” Peter drawls. Stiles looks at him in confusion and sees his gaze on something behind him and Jackson. “My boyfriends look good enough to eat. Noah’s wearing a vest and Chris is in a jacket.” He growls lowly in his throat and Stiles shudders in disgust. “I am the luckiest man here.” He winks at them. “Maybe they’ll let me unwrap them later. In the spirit of the holidays and all that.”
“Nope. No thank you. Goodbye, Peter. I’ll talk to you later.”
Jackson is almost shaking with laughter as Stiles hurries away to go talk to Erica and Boyd. He glances over his shoulder and sees the smile on Jackson’s face as he watches Stiles.
Ron takes a deep breath as he finishes reshelving his latest armload of books. He loves being the librarian here, he really does. Being allowed to wander the library, to research anything within reason that he wants, to help the students learn what they need to learn and find the books and scrolls to help them out. But sometimes he gets a reality check and remembers that this is actually a job.
Someone clears their throat behind him and he braces himself for another hour of questions that he really shouldn’t have to be explaining the answers to if the kids would just read their assigned texts. He turns around, smile plastered on his face, and sees the Headmistress standing there, Hermione and Draco just behind her. He glances between the three of them a few times.
He can’t remember doing anything that would warrant a visit from all three of them and he raises his eyebrows in question.
“Mister Weasley,” Professor McGonagall bites out.
Ron straightens his shoulders and lets out a long breath.
“Miss McGonagall,” he bites back.
Hermione buries her face in her hands with a groan and Draco covers his eyes as he lets out a pained laugh.
—
“I still just can’t believe that this is the same person I shared a Potions class with for multiple years. The same person who once made himself throw up slugs,” Draco says as he follows Harry through the doorway.
“To be fair he was using a busted wand,” Harry retorts. “I still vote you’re lucky it backfired. Merlin only knows what would have happened had it hit you properly.”
“And the spell isn’t actually ‘Eat Slugs’ so, you know he was basically casting it non-verbally,” Hermione states as she slips inside and closes the door behind them, blocking out what little noise there was coming in from the library. She narrows her eyes and tilts her head as she thinks about it. “He actually does that rather a lot now that I think about it.”
“I’ve always told you,” Harry grins. “Ron’s an amazing wizard.”
Ron looks up at the sound of his name and Draco snorts.
“This.” Draco gestures towards Ron. “Amazing wizard?”
Ron scratches at his cheek with the tip of his wand and then sticks it into the messy bun he has his hair pulled into. There’s a smudge of ink on his cheek and more smudges on his arms where he has his robe sleeves pushed up to his elbows. A stack of teacups are balanced on the corner of his desk and a teapot leaking purple steam is holding down a stack of papers near the other corner.
“What’s going on?”
Hermione shakes her head and settles into the one empty chair in Ron’s office. Once upon a time she used to try to clean up before she sat down, tried to tidy his papers and neatly stack his books and get rid of his dirty teacups. But that was a few years ago. She’s come to accept, begrudgingly, that doing so it a wasted effort.
“We were talking about your appearance in the works cited of one of my third years’ essays,” Harry answers as he hops onto the low cabinet against the wall beside Ron’s desk. The books and papers and quills littering the top of the cabinet sweep out of his way, landing in messy piles on either side of him.
“My what?”
“’When questioned about the the counter-spell the Professor stated whoever wrote this passage of our textbook is an incompetent git the likes of which make Professor Lockhart look like a genius. I am unsure exactly what this means but the Professor was adamant about it and as such I have decided it is true,’” Harry recites from memory. “Cited as being a quote from Professor Ronald B. Weasley, Hogwarts Librarian.”
“Oh.” Ron thinks about it a moment and then nods. “Well I did call Professor Lockhart a miserable twat. I probably shouldn’t have said that in front of a student, huh?”
“Really, Ron? Really?”
“Oh, come on, Granger,” Draco drawls. “You really should have expected that out of him by now. The man is uncouth and boorish at best.”
“Draco!” Hermione scolds. “You’re not much better some days.”
Draco gasps. “Listen here, Granger.”
Ron props his chin in his hand and watches them bicker.
He never does find out what they came into his office for.
—
“I didn’t actually expect you to call her that,” Draco says, passing over Ron’s teacup before fixing himself one.
“Call who what?” Ron asks distractedly as he takes the teacup. He’s got three books open on the table. Along with two scrolls and a pile of notes that Draco can’t even begin to understand. Mostly because Ron’s handwriting has not gotten better with age.
“Professor McGonagall.” Draco sits down and huffs. “And I thought we agreed no work at the kitchen table.”
“One: it just kinda slipped out when I was talking to her. Two: I just like proving you wrong. Three: I kinda ran out of room in my office?”
“Ronald,” Draco sighs. “If I can’t bring my Potions research to the kitchen table you can’t bring whatever obscure thing you’re researching to the kitchen table either. We have rules for a reason. That reason mostly being if we don’t do this we wind up mixing all our notes together on accident and almost explode our kitchen sink when something goes sideways.”
“Sorry, mate.” Ron grins at him as he grabs his wand and flicks his wrist, sending everything out of the kitchen and down the hall towards his office.
“Mate?” Draco scoffs. “You cannot call me that ever again. Not if you’re going to call Professor McGonagall ‘mate’ too. It’s just wrong.”
“Me calling her mate?”
“My boyfriend calling me the same thing he calls our Headmistress! A woman who taught us as children. Just.” Draco takes a sip of his tea and shakes his head. “No.”
ft a round of FMK, #relationshipanarchy, and Kira being adorable and in love with Erica
“How on earth did you get tinsel there?”
Stiles barely even glances up to the ceiling. “Magic,” he says. “Now answer the question, Kira.”
“It’s June?”
“Yes. It is.”
“Why is there Christmas tinsel attached to the middle of the seven foot tall ceiling in June?”
“Because I like shiny things and Derek made a constipated face when he saw it last week. Now. Answer the question, Kira. Fuck, Marry, Kill: Erica, Jordan, and Peter.”
Jordan waves his hand at her while the rest of the group erupts in noise.
“Fuck Peter?” Erica is staring at her like she’s never seen her before. “Really, babe? You feeling okay?”
“Thank you, darling,” Peter drawls. “I would be honored to fuck you too.”
Kira can’t help but laugh at the way he winks at her while Stiles chokes on his own breath. She gets up from where she’s been squished between Erica and Lydia on the loveseat, ignoring everyone’s questions and outbursts, and crosses the living room so she can plop herself into Peter’s lap. He wraps his arm around her as she leans in an kisses his cheek. Peter tugs her close and kisses her cheek in return, rubbing his nose against it a few times to make her giggle.
“Is, uh. Is this a mass hallucination?” Stiles asks from his spot next to Peter. “’Again? ‘Cause I did that once and I am not okay with that.”
Isaac was sitting with his back leaning against Peter’s legs. Now he’s curled on the floor with tears in his eyes laughing so hard he can only gesture towards Stiles when Kira looks at him curiously.
“I just. His face,” he manages to gasp out.
Jackson snickers from his place next to Isaac, turning to prop his elbow on Stiles’ knee as he says, “Kira's honing in on your wolf, Stilinski.”
That gets Stiles to stop doing an impression of a fish so he can glare down at Jackson.
“You're just jealous you’re not my wolf, Whittemore.”
“In your dreams, Stilinski.”
“Well according to the last round we played...”
“Hey. My other options were Greenburg and McCall. What the hell was I supposed to say?”
“I'm still not sure how Greenburg beat me when it comes to marriage.”
“You want me to marry you?”
“I'd have to ask Peter first.”
“Don't involve me,” Peter interrupts, chin on Kira’s shoulder as he watches the rest of the Hale Pack lounging around the living room. “I paid for most of you to go to college. I do not have the funds to start paying for weddings.”
Erica gasps. “Hey. You said you’d pay for me and Kira to get married!”
“That’s because the two of you simply want to go down to the courthouse and then come party in the Preserve. I can handle that fee. Stiles and Jackson getting married? That would be an Event the likes of which not even my pockets can afford.”
Kira settles back against Peter’s chest and listens as the entire living room erupts into arguments about whose wedding would cost the most and why Stiles refuses to wear a tux and Boyd questions why Stiles seems to think he can talk Boyd into wearing a dress and the whole living room is just noise and color and laughter and she lets it wash over her. Erica catches her eye and grins at her and Kira’s heart skips a couple beats at how radiant Erica looks.
They’re all glowing right now. Coming down from the full moon. A little giddy. Kinda punch drunk (and maybe a little alcohol drunk from the shots Jackson had insisted they all take when they got back) and Kira is content. They all are.
They’re happy and safe and surrounded by the people who know them best and it doesn't matter what's happening outside the windows because nothing can touch them here.
The screen door opens and Sheriff Stilinski walks in with Danny behind him, both of them carrying bags of snacks and pizza boxes.
“Do I even want to know?” Sheriff Stilinski asks.
“Probably not,” Danny mutters. “You know them.”
“Kira’s fucking Peter,” Stiles says. “And he won’t pay for Jackson and I to get married which is bullshit in my opinion. Because he’ll pay for Kira and Erica to go down to the courthouse. Clearly he’s playing favorites.”
“Why would you want to marry Jackson,” Derek asks as he drags himself up from behind the couch where he had been napping until the food arrived. “He snores and he never remembers to put his sweaty socks in the laundry basket.”
“I do not snore!”
“The sock thing is totally accurate though,” Isaac says. Jackson growls and throws himself at Isaac and the two of them go sprawling across the floor, rolling until they hit Erica’s legs and she throws herself into the pile of limbs with a cackle.
“Congratulations,” Peter murmurs in Kira’s ear. “You’ve caused absolute chaos.”
“You love it when we’re all like this,” she whispers back. “Because we’re only like this when we feel safe. You did this, Peter. You gave us this place to come together, to be silly and strange and a little unhinged sometimes. To be ourselves. To simply exist without judgment.”
Peter sighs and squeezes her gently. “Thank you, Kira. Sometimes I don’t even realize I need to hear that sort of thing.”
“I’ll tell you any time you need.” She watches Lydia gesture for Boyd to help her stand on the loveseat and climb over the back of it to avoid the tangle of limbs on the floor so she can head for the kitchen and have first dibs on the food that the others have somehow forgot about. Boyd looks over and gestures in question and she shakes her head; she’ll make her way there eventually.
For now she’s content to sit here and watch her friends, her family, be happy.
come trick-or-treat in my inbox requesting ficcies and I’ll either treat you to some fluff or humor or trick you with a horribly twisted sad AU (I’ll use a random generator to pick trick or treat)
send me “trick or treat” and a character(s) or ship in my inbox and I’ll write you a short little thing (I’ll be doing these all of October so send away!)
trick (1k so it’s under a cut)
Thunder crashes and Asahi looks up from his desk with a frown. The storm is a powerful one, to be able to be heard so clearly from all the way inside the library, almost unnatural in it’s ferocity. He finishes checking in the small pile of books next to him and wanders off to reshelve them. The rain has kept most of the people away today other than the handful that used the drop box to return their books and he’s almost starting to feel a little lonely as closing time creeps closer and closer.
The lights flicker in warning and a moment later he hears the old wooden doors of the library creak open, the sound of the storm raging outside nearly overwhelming in the quiet of the library before the doors swing shut.
He finishes putting away the books in his hand and is wandering towards the front desk when he hears the small bell on his desk chiming through the building.
“I’ll be right there,” he calls softly, knowing his voice will carry up to the desk.
“No rush,” a familiar voice calls back.
He can’t keep the smile off his face as he rounds the last aisle and spots the man leaning against his desk.
“Hello, Sousuke.”
“Hey, Asahi.” Thunder crashes again and Sousuke frowns. “Sure is a heck of a storm going on out there.”
The lights flicker and something deep in the library grumbles and growls. Asahi smiles when Sousuke looks towards the aisles.
“Some of the old vents and air circulation units get a bit tetchy during storms,” he explains as he leans against the desk beside Sousuke. “So what brings you here tonight? No Rin or Momo to keep you company?”
“Nah. They’re busy with some project. I was running some errands and thought I’d take shelter here for a few minutes.”
“Well I’m always happy to have some company.”
They make small talk, Sousuke trailing after him as he reshelves the rest of the books, and before he knows it he only has one book left and the deep floor shaking chime signaling the building is closed and locked for the night almost startles him when it goes off.
“Did you need me to leave while you finish up?”
“Always asking me such silly questions.” Asahi shakes his head with a smile. “No I only have this last book and then I’ll be done.” He leads Sousuke deeper into the library, passing aisle after aisle after aisle.
“I didn’t realize the library was this big.” Sousuke is looking over his shoulder towards the front of the library, Asahi’s desk barely even visible in the distance.
“Oh there’s a lot about this library that people don’t know.”
The bookshelves are larger in this part of the library. Older. Made of rough hewn wood with wicked looking splinters jutting out at every angle and filled with leather bound tomes.
Sousuke gulps as he tilts his head back to try and see the top of the shelves. The shadows grow deeper and deeper the longer they walk and this time when he looks over his shoulder he can’t even see the bright lights of the main part of the library. The floors seem to vibrate under his feet, a deep almost subsonic rumble that he feels in his bones more than anything else.
“Asahi?”
“We’ll be there in a jiffy,” Asahi murmurs. Something high over their heads shifts and a stale breeze ruffles their hair. “Did you know that I’ve been the librarian here since I was seventeen?”
Sousuke shakes his head. “Uh. No. Do you like being the librarian?”
Asahi lets out a little laugh. “I never really wanted to be the librarian,” he admits. “It’s a lonely job. Taking care of this old place. But the benefits start to make up for it. For the most part.” He looks over his shoulder and grins. “Still gets pretty lonely.”
“Good thing you have someone like me to come keep you company then, huh?”
Asahi’s grin grows. “Oh very much so.”
The shadows are so deep now they almost seem to pulse at the edge of his vision. Chittering comes from their left and a shiver runs down Sousuke’s spine. He walks just a little closer to Asahi.
“Asahi,” he asks again.
Light in the distance flickers as the sound of their footsteps seems to be swallowed by darkness around them.
“Almost there,” Asahi’s voice is so soft Sousuke has to strain to hear it.
Suddenly they’re stepping out of the darkness and into a long room. Instead of the impossibly high shelves they had been walking past the room is filled with waist high podiums. Each as empty as the next. Asahi walks over to one a few feet from the door and carefully sets the book he’s been carrying on the top of it. The entire rooms seems to shiver and shudder, the walls shifting and stretching, and Sousuke stares as the book… dissolves? After a minute the room stills and he watches a gold plate appear on the podium, words scratched onto it in a language he’s never seen before.
“What?”
“Humans,” Asahi says, fingers running along the top of the podium. “Are fascinating. The stories they tell. The worlds they create. The knowledge they carry with them from birth to death. Absolutely fascinating.” Asahi’s eyes meet his and Sousuke shivers. “Libraries are fascinating too, if you stop and think about it. All that knowledge, all those stories, all those worlds. Collected and categorized and catalogued. Knowledge is power,” he says softly. “And librarians, well.”
He chuckles in a way that makes Sousuke’s stomach drop as he remembers something Asahi said.
“You said you’ve been the librarian since you were seventeen.”
Asahi’s eyes light up. “I did. You were listening!”
“I was. So. Um.”
“Ask.”
“How old are you?”
“Very old.”
“What… what is this place?”
“The library.”
“Is it… alive?”
Asahi’s grin turns wicked. “Do you want to find out?”
so just over 6 years ago i reblogged this post and then saved it in my drafts because it just spoke to me. i have had these lines in my head for almost 6 years. and now i have finally written a thing for it.
it’s only 1000 words but they are 1000 words that have been sitting in my head and my heart for over 6 years, just like this fandom has.
love you all so, so very much.
the only downside to making words happen for this is that i can no longer tell @notsuchasecret that i’ve been thinking about this post as a threat the way i have been doing to them for at least somewhere around 2 years now
Tobio sits against the wall outside the gym, chin propped on the volleyball he’s hugging to his chest as he stares at not much of anything as he waits for his parents to finish whatever they’re doing on the other side of the school so they can all go home.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” he mouths, voice not even making it past his lips.
He had heard it from his teachers, their voices neutral and bland and like he was just one in a long line of kids they’ll have forgotten by the time the sun sets tonight. Like there was nothing memorable about him at all.
He had heard it from his coaches, their voices choppy and unsure and like they were just happy that he was going to go be someone else’s problem soon. Like they couldn’t wait to be rid of him.
He had heard it from his classmates, their voices distant and distracted and like they were saying it just because they knew they had to and it was the polite thing to do. Like they didn’t care if he even heard them or responded to them.
He had heard it from his teammates, their voices mocking and harsh and like they were glad to be rid of him once and for all. Like they wouldn’t be all that upset if they found out he moved across the world or quit playing for good.
He might have heard the words from a hundred people today but none of them mattered. None of them cared.
He might have spent the day surrounded by people but really he feels like he spent his last day of middle school completely and utterly alone.
—
Tobio sits against the wall outside the gym, head tilted back and fingers idly tapping the volleyball resting in his lap, as he stares up at the clouds drifting by high in the sky. His parents are still talking to Coach Ukai and Miwa has been cornered by Kei’s older brother — or maybe it’s the other way around he’s not entirely sure he knows or wants to know — and he’s not sure if he’s ready to go home quite yet.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” a voice says and he blinks a few times as he drags his mind from the clouds. Hitoka smiles down at him and he does his best to smile back. He’s still not the greatest at it, even after three years of practicing nearly every day thanks to the team, but it does the trick because she giggles and sits down next to him without even needing to ask.
“Happy graduation, Hitoka,” he finally manages to reply when he remembers he’s supposed to.
He’s heard the phrase so many times today that he’s lost count of them all. From teachers, from classmates, from teammates, from his coach. So many people and each one had genuinely seemed to mean it.
He’s said the phrase himself, mostly in reply when he’s heard it directed at him, and has been surprised that he’s meant it too. He’s happy that his fellow third years are graduating, that he’s graduating with them. He’s happy to be here, to be surrounded by so many people.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Takeda had said that morning when he spotted Tobio. It was a little premature, he explained, but he wasn’t sure when he’d be able to see Tobio that day and he wanted to make sure to tell him.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Tadashi had said when he spotted Kageyama on his way to his first class that morning. He had wound up saying it three other times to Tobio because he was just that happy they were all graduating. Tobio had said it back every time.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” his parents had said when they saw him before the mini-celebration the team had decided to throw after school in the gym. His mother had almost seemed surprised when he pulled her into a hug but his father had smiled at the sight of them.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Coach Ukai had said when Tobio had stopped in to return the spare set of gym keys he had found in the bottom of his gym bag when he cleaned it out the night before. Coach had thanked him for the keys and reminded him he was welcome to stop back any time he wanted, but not too often he had added with a laugh.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” various classmates had said when they passed him in the hallways and sat next to him in class. He made sure to reply to every one of them and was happy when he realized he remembered the name of every person he said it to.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Kei had said after the ceremony. “Happy graduation, Kei,” Tobio had replied. “Thank you. For everything.” Kei had given him a long look that once upon a time would have pissed him off to no end before he huffed quietly, almost a laugh, and said, “You too,” so softly Tobio almost hadn’t heard him.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” Shouyou had shouted the moment he stepped into the gym after the ceremony, just before the mini-celebration started. Not to be outdone Tobio had shouted it too and then they kept shouting it back and forth until Tadashi broke them up with a laugh.
Tobio sits against the wall outside the gym, Hitoka’s small frame warm against his side, volleyball in his lap, and watches Kei argue with Shouyou while Tadashi grins at them and shakes his head, his eyes darting to Hitoka and Tobio every now and then. He spent his last day of high school surrounded by people he was going to miss, people who would miss him. He’s barely had a moment of peace today and it’s been amazing perfect.
And now he’s ending his last day of high school surrounded by some of his favorite people.
“Happy graduation, Tobio,” he says to himself, voice clear and proud.
“I don’t know what you did to anger the fae, but it sucks to be you.” and bokuroaka if you can?
“I don’t know what you did to anger the fae, but it sucks to be you.” Koutarou slaps Tetsurou on the back with a sympathetic grin.
“Story of my life,” Tetsurou sighs.
“Angering the fae? Or it sucking to be you?”
“Yes.”
Koutarou laughs brightly and Tetsurou feels himself swaying towards that brightness. Like sunflowers towards the sun they hold so dear.
“I see,” a cool voice near his ear says and he freezes. “He is your sun. Your light. Your everything.”
Koutarou tilts his head in concern when Tetsurou sucks in a surprised breath. But Tetsurou waves him off and heads for the edge of the clearing.
“Going to grab some more firewood,” he calls over his shoulder. “You leave him right the fuck out of this,” he hisses as soon as he’s out of earshot. “This is between you and me. Always has been.”
The air shimmers at his side and he keeps stalking through the forest, eyes skittering around for decent pieces of firewood to take back. He starts his scramble over a fallen tree alone in the woods and when his feet touch the ground on the other side a figure appears next to him. Eyes that shift from the grey-blue of storm clouds to the dusty green of the forest contemplate him as he takes a deep breath and steadily ignores the fae.
The fae follows him down the path, for lack of a better word, and watches as he picks up a handful of branches and sticks before turning back towards the clearing. He takes another path, equally covered and impossible for almost anyone else to find, and continues to ignore the fae at his side.
“Why do you despise me so much Tetsurou?”
He stops. He can just see a hint of the edge of the clearing. Can just barely make out Koutarou shuffling about here and there through the trees. He stands in the shadows of the forest and finally turns to meet those grey-blue-green eyes. There’s curiosity there, yes. But there’s also trickery and cunning and knowledge beyond anything Tetsurou could even begin to grasp.
“You twist my words to fit your intentions. Warp my meanings until they turn into your definitions. Scramble my desires until you can piece them together as you see fit. My every thought is but a plaything for your whims. And you have the nerve to wonder why I feel how I feel about you?”
The fae tilts it’s head again, eyes flickering from Tetsurou to the clearing and back again. The air shimmers around them and Tetsurou holds his breath, unsure of what comes next. It’s never good to tempt the fae. Or anger them. Or inconvenience them. Or, really, have anything to do with them ever. Tetsurou has always known this, always tried his best to follow those unofficial rules. It’s just his luck that this particular fae stumbled across him one day a few years ago and just never left him alone.
Almost three years and this shit knows practically all there is to know about Tetsurou The only things he knows are that this fae has grey-blue-green eyes, dark hair, fair skin, and it stifles it’s laughter behind it’s hand like it’s not supposed to find Tetsurou amusing.
“Three years. Three years you’ve hounded my steps, hovering just out of sight and popping up out of nowhere whenever you feel, no matter if it’s inconvenient to me. Three years you’ve studied me, watched me, breathed down my neck at every moment. You know more of me than my own family ever has. More than any lover has. And I don’t even know your name. Or any name to call you by. Three years and I still don’t have a clue who you are or what you want.”
The fae blinks at him a few times and then just like that it’s gone.
Tetsurou grinds his teeth together for a few long breaths and then makes his way back to the clearing.
—
Koutarou has his head in Tetsurou’s lap, laughing at the story Tetsurou is telling and basking in the warmth of the fire when a branch cracks loudly just outside the clearing and they both freeze. They listen as best as they can, breaths held, but no other noises come through and it’s pure instinct that makes Koutarou glance to the side. He scrambles to his feet at the sight of a figure stepping out of the woods and into the clearing.
“’kaashi!” he yells excitedly and hurries across to pull the figure into a crushing hug.
Tetsurou stares, mouth opened sightly, as the fae, his fae, smiles gently and pulls himself from Koutarou’s grip.
“Hello Koutarou,” the fae says softly. They approach Tetsurou slowly and sink down to their knees in front of him. Those grey-blue-green eyes sparkle in the firelight like fine gems and Tetsurou can’t look away. “Hello Tetsurou,” they say just as softly as they had spoken to Koutarou.
Koutarou looks back and forth between the two of them a few times before suddenly sucking in a breath. “Oh! This is…”
“Yes,” the fae says, “this is.”
Koutarou flops onto the ground next to Tetsurou. “Alright then.”
Tetsurou looks between them, confusion bubbling through his chest and threatening to spill out his mouth in harsh words when the fae tilts it’s head and smiles. “Tetsurou,” it says, voice quiet yet commanding. “Call me Keiji.”
Koutarou sucks in a sharp breath but doesn’t say a word. Not even when Tetsurou whispers, “Keiji,” and the fae reaches out to pull him into a soft kiss.
He never knew magic had a taste until this moment and now that he’s tasted it he gets the feeling that nothing else will ever compare.
“Have you figured out what I want yet, Tetsurou?” He looks into Keiji’s eyes and feels something deep inside, even deeper than his soul, shift into place.
If you’re ever in the mood, I adore your MatsuDai and would love whatever you’d like to write for them with a prompt of “you’re a werewolf? No wonder you never let me do your laundry and like to be petted.”
More MatsuDai because I love them and I love that you ask me for them!
Daichi freezes, one leg inside the window and one out, when he hears Matsukawa groaning softly. Matsukawa isn’t supposed to be here. Matsukawa is supposed to be out of town with friends. Which is perfect. Because then when Daichi sneaks into their apartment after his night out there’s no one to see how absolutely exhausted and wrecked he looks. He knows he looks wrecked. For one thing he’s seen his reflection when he gets back after nights like this. For another Suga has absolutely no problem telling him just how shitty he looks after a long night.
Anyway. No one is supposed to be here. That way he can slink in, stand under the shower until it runs cold, and then collapse onto his bed for a few hours until he feels somewhat human again. He blames the fact that he’s so exhausted for not realizing sooner that someone is in his room.
Matsukawa rolls onto his back and squints towards the window.
“The heck you doin’ comin’ through the window? We have a door.”
Daichi pulls himself the rest of the way inside and shuts the window.
“What are you doing on my bedroom floor? You have your own room.”
Matsukawa shrugs sheepishly. “I missed you?” Daichi raises his eyebrows.
“I dunno if I buy that.”
“I was confused when I came home?”
Daichi rolls his eyes and shuffles over to his closet to dig out some clean clothes.
“Now that sounds more believable.” He heads for the door. “I’m gonna shower until the water runs cold.” Matsukawa waves an arm at Daichi.
—
He doesn’t plan to fall asleep in the shower. But he totally does it, not even waking up when the water cools. It’s not until he shivers and smacks his head against the wall that he wakes back up, startled and shuddering. He stands slowly, muscles aching from overuse and cold, and smacks blindly at the wall until he finds the faucet and shuts the shower off. He doesn’t even open his eyes as he stumbles out of the shower and dries off with the first towel he grabs. A quick sniff makes him realize it’s actually Matsukawa’s towel but he shrugs and keeps going.
He shuffles back over to his own room in a pair of ratty sweats and finally opens his eyes when he trips on his way to his bed. He makes a half-hearted effort to stay upright but loses the battle with gravity and winds up splayed across Matsukawa who simply lets out a grunt. That’s it. Not other reaction.
“Are you dead?” Daichi can’t help but ask. “Or dying?”
“Sometimes I hate full moons,” Matsukawa mumbles. Daichi nods. He understands that feeling. Then Matsukawa goes stiff under him and clears his throat. “I mean, uh, you know. Crazy shit happens on full moons and all that.”
Daichi nods again and this time something rolls loose in his overly tired brain and he pushes himself up enough to squint down at Matsukawa. It’s really a surprise he hasn’t put it together before. Matsukawa is always out when the full moon happens. He hates strongly scented soaps. He’s really snarly and growly when he’s upset. He can see really well in the dark.
“You’re a werewolf too?” Daichi says eventually. “Huh no wonder you never let me do your laundry and you like to be petted.” Daichi reaches up to run his hand through Matsukawa’s tangled hair with a grin.
“I’m not supposed to tell people about— wait. Too?”
Daichi chuckles sheepishly. “Uh… Surprise?”
Matsukawa sits up so fast that Daichi tumbles to the floor. “I can’t believe you never told me! Shit that explains why you can always tell when someone else has been here, you can smell them! And why you’re always wandering around with your eyes shut in the mornings but you never run into things even if I move them.”
“I never told you? Um hello. Pot. Kettle.” Daichi gestures between them. Then he laughs. “Oh man Suga is never going to let me hear the end of this,” he explains when Matsukawa hums curiously. “We’ve been living together for two years and just now figured out we were both wolves. I bet that little shit knows you’re a werewolf and is wondering how long it will take me to figure it out.”
“Is that the sort of thing he’d do?”
“Yes. One hundred percent a thing he’d do.”
Matsukawa hums again and then flops onto his back again. “Oikawa too probably. He’s really perceptive about this shit. He probably knew the first time he met you.” Daichi wriggles around until they’re side by side staring up at his ceiling. “So,” Matsukawa eventually says, “do we tell them or do we see how long we can go on pretending we don’t have a clue before they finally crack?”
Daichi hums in consideration. “That depends. Do we do increasingly wolf-like things around each other in their presence?”
“Oh of course.”
“And if they try to hint at it we just deny it. ‘Oh no way is Matsukawa a wolf Suga. I’d know if he was.’ and all that?”
“Um duh. Yes. ‘What do you mean he’s a were Oikawa? He totally doesn’t even smell like one you’re so wrong.’ Oh that would piss him off so much.” Matsukawa turns onto his side and nudges Daichi. “Can we do it? Please?”
Daichi glances over and snorts: Matsukawa is sporting one hell of a puppy eyed look, complete with pout.
“You don’t have to twist my arm into it.”
—
It’s once again the morning after the full moon and Daichi freezes halfway through climbing into his window.
“You know you can use the freaking door,” Matsukawa mutters from his spot curled up on Daichi’s floor.
“You know if you miss my scent so badly you can just crash on my bed.”
“Oh shut up.”
“Make me.”
Matsukawa’s eyes flash at Daichi but he just laughs, eyes wild and heart free.
