I might be too late on the prompts, but I really loved, "If I die, I'm haunting you first" for Steter. 💜
started writing this one in bed this morning. i had fun with it. hope you enjoy!
"If I die, I'm haunting you first," Peter promises him, a dark scowl on his face.
And Stiles might have considered it a threat a few years ago, before they became friends, before they fell into bed together, before they moved into a place of their own--
And especially before five minutes ago when peter rushed out of the bathroom with a string of frantic “Nononononononononono--” and climbed on top of the kitchen island, almost knocking Stiles’ coffee mug down on the floor.
As it is, Stiles is hard-pressed not to coo over the sight of him: big bad grr werewolf running away at the sight of an itsy bitsy spider.
(There’s toothpaste drying in the corner of Peter’s mouth but Stiles will let him figure that one out on his own.)
“Peter, darling, light of my life, fire to my loins--” Stiles winces at the last one even before Peter can squint at him for it because, yeah, sounds too much like an STD. Still, he continues, “It's a spider, not the chupacabra, baby. If you die it’s only because I died to it first and you tried to avenge me.”
“You’ll be dying on the couch, alone, if you let that thing scuttle away,” Peter says darkly.
Stiles blows him a kiss at that and heads for the bathroom armed with a glass and a piece of paper. This is not his first rodeo.
Lucky for him he finds the spider still happily sitting on the bathroom mirror among specks of what must be toothpaste. Oh, so much teasing material first thing in the morning. Stiles loves Sunday morning.
He collets the spider with ease because it’s one of those things he learned being in a committed relationship with Peter.
He releases the scary little monster through the living room window, so Peter can clearly see that the coast is clear.
“Your greatest foe has been defeated,” he needlessly announces, bowing with a flourish before he puts the glass in the dishwasher.
Peter, for his part, has uncurled somewhat as is now simply sitting on the kitchen island. A position Stiles shamelessly uses to his advantage, shimmying between Peter’s legs. He places his hands on the marble, on both sides of Peter’s thighs, as he leans in.
“Now, how about a kiss for the valiant knight that saved you.”
“My hero,” Peter snipes, but he still cups Stiles' face in his hands and kisses him sweetly.
He tastes a little minty.
