So overall this year I have written just over 87k for my fics. And that is not including the ficlets that I have written on here and posted to AO3 at all, so the number will actually be a little higher, maybe closer to 88/89k since the start of the year.
Which I think is pretty good...once the year is over, I'm going to have a look at the overall count of words that I have written for my fics and make that my goal to reach or even pass for next year!
Mmm, gimme Chris and Stiles having angry, frantic sex after a hunt that almost went wrong~
“What the hell were you thinking, Stiles? Are you trying to die young?”
Anger and agony in Chris’ voice make it boom in the tiny elevator and cause Stiles to flinch. Yes okay, he had taken an unnecessarily risk. And yes, he could’ve got hurt petty badly, but that was still no reason to …
Suddenly, there are lips on his, wet and rough and demanding, a wet tongue pushing past them, taking as good as giving. Chris’ hands are big and callused, fingertips sharp against Stiles’ skin and he gasps when they press against his sensitive pulse point.
“I won’t lose you too, Stiles! Not you too.”
He sounds so broken, so lost, and Stiles just knows, he’ll give this man everything he’ll need tonight.
whatever you want | Chris/Stiles | approaching R-ish territory?
Speaking of prompts.
Sometimes prompts come to me. Sometimes I make actual effort of finding them.
This most likely won’t appear on my LJ (or will appear in a master post of all prompts), because it’s just a rough thing for the “of fairytales, blood and dirty souls” comment ficathon.
The prompt by chiichaan was:
Chris/Stiles
Chris is Stiles' Sugardaddy
The original thread can be found here.
If you want to join in on the fun, be it as a writer or a prompt-giver, you still can. I’ll be probably stalking the challenge some more.
whatever you want | Chris/Stiles | approaching R-ish territory?
“What do you want from me?” Stiles asks sometimes.
His voice isn’t distressed or worried; he’s just curious. Chris smiles at him cryptically, lines forming around his pale blue eyes, and changes the subject every time. He asks Stiles about the college, or what he’s doing on the weekend, or starts talking about money. Chris knows it makes Stiles uneasy, so he does it to distract him.
In the beginning, when it’s a very awkward arrangement between the two of them, Stiles thinks maybe Chris is simply lonely. His house is big and lavish, and there are pictures of two women: one about Stiles’ age, and the other old enough to be Chris’s wife. Neither one of them is around, though, and Stiles never asks. They don’t have the kind of relationship that would give him the right to do so.
Stiles is wrong. He tends to be, so Chris isn’t particularly surprised. In all honesty, he hadn’t just woken up one day and decided that the way to deal with his life is to find a barely-legal boy and provide him with all that he may need to survive in a strange city, in exchange for company. And actually, it’s just that – company. In unorthodox situations, yes. But still just that.
No. The truth is, Stiles just happened to Chris one day. He’s worked for Chris from the very beginning, but it wasn’t like that. Stiles put up an add about helping with some minor household stuff, and Chris needed someone to do his grocery runs. Simple as that.
After just one week of Stiles brightening his kitchen with a never-ending steam of chatter, Chris figured he wants more of that. An unadulterated version of that, any time he wants. So he laid out his conditions, and Stiles called him an old creep.
Then he called him one week later, saying that his Jeep had decided to die on him, and okay, yes, Chris can be his sugardaddy if he’s into that. Just no funny business. Chris rolled his eyes, even though Stiles couldn’t see him. He was pretty sure Stiles was doing a much more varied set of gesticulations at the same moment.
***
It’s strange, but it works. Or at the very least it works for Chris. He gets to have Stiles just trotting around his house, writing his essays or studying. He takes Stiles to the shooting range, which is a terrible idea, and to a museum of weaponry, which turns out to be a success.
Once, when they are both too drunk on whiskey for any driving to be a good idea – or for any talking, actually, as it later turns out – Chris suggests that Stiles should move in. To save on the rent, or just for convenience. Stiles answers him with a resounding “Dude, no way.”
The matter gets dropped after that. Well, Chris drops it. He feels vaguely ashamed as well as hung-over the next day, and he’s glad Stiles hasn’t said yes. With the overly platonic direction this is going, Chris may as well adopt Stiles.
And Chris may have very conflicting emotions here, but he’s pretty sure none of them are parental.
That being said, some idea has clearly taken root in that complicated mind of Stiles’. Chris sees it in the way Stiles eyes him sometimes, or in how he trails off just before he says something. Chris never presses, though, and Stiles never offers any explanation.
Until, of course, one day he sort of does.
“What do you want from me?” Stiles asks.
Chris is flipping through a military catalogue, and he’s mostly determined to ignore Stiles. Stiles just came over today out of nowhere, and Chris isn’t going to tell him to get lost – but he’s not in a mood to indulge him with never-ending banter, either.
“I mean for real this time. In the– Uh, in the great outcome of things, what do you, Chris Argent, want from me, Stiles Stilinski?”
Quite a few things, actually. And then quite a few of them that are probably illegal in most states. Mostly, though? Mostly Chris wants Stiles to drop the topic already.
“You can’t just like me haunting your house,” Stiles presses on.
“I do,” Chris says simply, not looking up.
He should have, because then when Stiles speaks again, it’s from very close, and Chris would know that if he just looked. “But you don’t want to fuck me,” Stiles says bluntly.
Chris sighs, and lets the catalogue drop into his lap. Stiles is standing in front of him, their knees almost bumping. He looks flushed, uncomfortable in his own skin. Mostly he looks disappointed.
Disappointed. Chris swallows something that feels like razors in his throat, and says, “That wasn’t part of the agreement. You’re not a prostitute Stiles.”
This is so upside-down and through-the-looking glass. Chris feels his grasp on the situation slipping.
“Yeah, the hell I’m not! But‒” He nudges Chris’s thigh with his knee. The insecurity in his eyes would be adorable, really, if the subject matter was different. Preferably very, very different. “What if I want to put it on the table?”
“Is it about money? Do you need more, because–”
Stiles is good with words. Probably better than Chris, who tends to be mild and soft-spoken – not the best tactic against Stiles’ arguments.
But Stiles is also good – better even – with actions, and now he figures he should just go for it. He climbs into Chris’s lap, and it’s graceless, but effective; because suddenly Chris has Stiles against his thighs, his groin and his torso, and Stiles’ hot breath against his lips.
Chris can argue with words, but not with the warmth of Stiles’ body or his insistent fingers digging into his chest. But Chris is the one who’s supposed to be in control here, so he grips Stiles’ hips, manoeuvres him as he sees fit – which is closer, and shows him just what he wants.
