Petrichor Meditation
This is a loose end from a sprint I did a while ago, not sure what I want to do with it but I wanted to share for now
—
Petrichor fills his senses as the rain beats down into the soil of the preserve. As his body twists and turns, Stiles finds his mind at peace. The war zone in his mind is silent for the first time in a week, and he follows the steps his instructor taught him.
He moves from the first stance to the second, not oblivious to the rain but accepting it and continuing his session. Each step has a meaning, each flick of the wrist has a reason. Each toe grips the wet ground with balance.
The bubbling lava inside his bones swells from a raging eruption to a calm simmer. He finds a balance in his mental palace.
The practice is called many names, but Deaton calls it meditation. Stiles’s teacher had called it something much older and more foreign, and the witch Angela with her creepy cat, Solembum, in San Francisco calls it the Dance of Dragons.
It’s a simple technique that forces the practitioner to exercise their magic without casting a spell. Simply moving it through the nerves and muscles of the body and reigning control over the otherwise temperamental entity that is ones magic.
Stiles’s magic is a particularly capricious energy.
Like a wild stallion, it had taken months to exert dominance over the energy within him; and luckily he’d had the right kind of teachers to guide him.
Derek sat on the deck of the pack home, a few miles away from his old home which had finally been leveled and a large Rowan tree planted there in memory of his family.
His feet hung off the ledge of the deck, letting the rain wet his skin from the knee down. It was June after all, and the water was warm and pleasant.
It was amazing how far the man (because that was what Stiles was now) had come. After high school the pack had sort of faltered and fallen into two halves. Scott and his betas and Derek and his own. Stiles kind of just… lingered in between. Not due to lack of welcome though, but in preference to not choose either alpha over the other.
He watches how the rain paints Stiles’s shirt to his body, outlining muscles and dripping down his throat. Derek casts his eyes away quickly enough.
The air around Stiles’s hands starts crackling the smoother his transitions become until there’s light igniting and crackling. His eyes are thunderstorms. His torso is steady and calm. Like a grounded live wire, crackling with not only power, but control.
