Another shoutout to the demons and monsters that lived under your bed/in your closet and actually obeyed all the arbitrary rules you invented to keep yourself safe, like “if light is touching me at all I can’t be harmed” or “if I’m stepping on carpet I am untouchable” or “if I move my hand in a particular pattern while I walk, I’m off-limits during my voyage through the dark house to the bathroom”.
That was really considerate of them, especially given how biased in your favor those rules were.
“I sit before flowers
hoping they will train me
in the art of opening up.
I stand on mountain tops believing
that avalanches will teach me to let go.
I know nothing
but I am here to learn.”
My @sterekreversebang art for Blessed by @the-redcrate. Thank you so much for pinch hitting this amazing story for me, Mads! You’re a rockstar and a total dream to work with. Make sure you guys follow the link above and read. It’s fantastic canonverse that’s got that perfect S2 nostalgia for me. Just. UGH YES go read! ❤
So imagine that
one day Harry and Draco are arguing in an abandoned corridor (like
they always do) and Draco has Harry shoved up against the wall and
they’re breathing heavily and Harry just says offhand, “What are
you gonna do, Malfoy? Kiss me?”
And to both their
surprise, Malfoy lunges forward and does just that. It’s rough.
It’s desperate. But after a moment they stop. And they’re just
standing there glaring at each other. Like their both so pissed that
they did that.
Harry shoves Malfoy
off of him and says, “Always knew you were a poof” and Malfoy
snarls back, “Like you weren’t begging for it, Potter.” They
walk in opposite directions and don’t talk about it again.
A few days later
Malfoy is reading a Potions textbook in the eighth year common room
and Harry flops down on the sofa beside him and proceeds to lay his
messy, unwashed, fresh-from-Quidditch-practice hair on Malfoy’s
lap.
Everyone around them
stops what they’re doing to see what will happen. But neither Draco
nor Harry make any comment and act like it’s the most normal thing
in the world. Harry closes his eyes and acts like he’s gonna fall
asleep. And Draco keeps reading his book.
After about five
minutes Draco finally snaps, “When was the last time you washed
your hair, Potter? I’ll have to throw these trousers out after
this.”
And Harry, without
opening his eyes, yawns and says, “Anything to get you out of them,
Malfoy.”
“Look who’s a
poof now.”
“Says the one with
a hard on from just my head in his lap.”
“Git.”
“Prat.”
“Fuck off,
Potter.”
Then Harry yawns
again and Draco turns back to his book.
And then Harry legit
falls asleep still with his head in Draco’s lap.
In Charms later that
week, Malfoy insists on being Harry’s partner. They fight and say
the nastiest things to each other the entire time. After class,
they’re still fighting, but holding hands all the way to the Great
Hall for lunch. When they part ways, Harry scowls and makes an
obscene hand gesture while Malfoy gives him his best derisive sneer.
A few nights later,
Harry wakes up to find Malfoy cuddled up to his side, fast asleep.
“Malfoy.”
No
response.
“Malfoy.” he
whispers a bit louder.
He
prods the other boy’s shoulder who then wakes up with a start and
immediately looks pissed.
“What.”
“How
long have you been here?” Harry can’t help asking.
“Does
it matter? Go back to sleep. It’s two in the morning for fucks
sake.”
Malfoy
lies back down, curling himself around Harry again, and closing his
eyes.
Harry
rolls his eyes, but then looks down at him for a moment. He can’t
see too well in the dark and without his glasses, but Malfoy’s
blonde hair and pale skin almost seem to glow. He can just make out
the peaceful look on his face and for the first time ever,
he sees Malfoy as Draco. An
18-year-old kid.
“Wait.”
Malfoy
looks up, thoroughly annoyed. But
before he can say anything,
Harry catches his lips in a deep kiss. It’s open. It’s hot. It
gains speed quickly. But all the while, still
soft. And
sweeter than Harry would have ever thought anything
could be with Draco Malfoy.
Harry
pulls away suddenly
and lays his head back on his pillow. Slightly
breathless and with a small smile on his lips he whispers, “Fuck.”
derek and stiles on a road trip across the country
(◕‿◕✿)
You know what this makes me think? Of all those stories where Derek left Beacon Hills but Stiles stays to fight. And maybe they keep in contact in a vague way over the years. Like Derek always sends him a card on his birthday, and occasionally Stiles will text him for advice when some new supernatural disaster hits town. And it’s okay. Stiles thinks. He’s tired, sure, and he wishes things were different. Wishes he could catch a break sometimes but he’s trying and that’s got to count for something, right?
Then one year, on Stiles’ birthday, the card he gets from Derek has an address carefully written in the lower left corner, in Derek’s fastidious cursive. Stiles doesn’t let himself think to much about it. Doesn’t ALLOW himself to, because he knows what it means. It means Derek has found somewhere.
Somewhere he calls home.
It means he’s not coming back.
Derek’s not coming back– and Stiles feels like an icy fist has grabbed his insides.
He won’t let himself think about it.
Maybe a week later, though, after Stiles is injured in a vicious battle with a rival pack, he patches himself up as best he can, drives home feeling shaky and unsettled. Hobbles through the front door, pours himself a drink of whiskey, then another, feels a little maudlin. Maybe lets his mind drift back to that card. Flips open his laptop and brings up Google Earth. Types in the address (which he’s memorized), and hits enter. It’s a ranch in Wyoming. Sees pictures. Endless rolling planes and a vast expanse of sky. A place where you can see everything that’s coming towards you, where there are no shadows for dark things to hide in.
And he aches.
It occurs to him that he hasn’t really felt safe. Not really. Not for the longest time. Not since– well– not since Derek left. Because Derek was the one. The one that made sure that when the supernatural shit hit the fan, Stiles wasn’t getting gouged by harpies or shredded by asshole werewolves. Derek actually HAD his back. More to the point, they had each others’ back. He misses that. Misses having someone he can depend on, someone he can banter with when the chips are down. It hits him in all in a rush that he misses Derek. He’s tired. So tired of fighting and pretending to be okay, and he misses Derek.
The idea won’t leave him alone. Days pass. Weeks. Months. Nearly a year. And it gnaws at him. He spends his nights staring at his laptop, at the ranch. The plains. The breathtaking emptiness of it. Then one night, after another particularly brutal fight in which he narrowly escapes with his life, he comes home, packs a bag, leaves a note for his dad, climbs into his car and just drives and drives and drives. Day and night. Only stopping when he absolutely has to.
As he finally approaches the ranch in the Jeep, though, he’s convinced himself that Derek won’t even be there. That he’s probably moved on again. It’s a beautiful place, timber glowing almost red in the late afternoon sun, endless green fields in all directions and, in the very distance, barely visible on the horizon, he sees mountains. Even if Derek isn’t here, he thinks he’ll stay. See if he can find work.
As he pulls up, though, a door to one of the many out building opens, and Stiles’ breath catches in his throat.
Derek looks– softer. His beard is fuller, jeans looser. He’s wearing a faded gray shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal the corded muscle of his arms, which he folds across his chest, as Stiles kills the engine. They stare at each other for a moment. Stiles’ gaze drinking in all that capable strength, safe hands, the slight gray in his beard. He looks good. So fucking good. Stiles can’t sit here staring at him all day though, so, heart in his mouth, he opens the door to his jeep and tumbles out, stumbling forward a few steps, suddenly feeling every inch the awkward teenager he hasn’t been in years.
“Hey. Hi, you look–uh–” he begins, but can’t seem to find the words. “I–had to. . I needed to–” And the way he falters over it, the intonation, makes it sound like there’s more to it. Like he need to see Derek for some other reason, because of some crisis or whatever. Like he’s come to get him. When the truth is: Stiles needed to see Derek. Period. The end.
Derek raises one eyebrow in a silent question.
Stiles swallows. Starts again. “I just wanted to see you,“ he says. Raw. Honest. “Is that–? Okay?” His heart is pounding in his chest, because it’s only just dawning on him that he doesn’t know if Derek wants him here. If Derek feels the same way he does– the way he’s always felt ever since that first day in the preserve all those years ago.
Derek purses his lips. “Of course I wanted to see you too,” he says, with a slow blooming grin that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “That’s why I sent you my address, idiot.”
Stiles huffs out a startled laugh. “What? Really?”
With a shake of his head, Derek lopes towards him easily, reaches out a hand, cups Stiles’ face. “Really,” he says. “Took you long enough. I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” And he dips his head to kiss him.
Stiles would protest at that, but he’s too busy kissing him back, besides they’ll be plenty of time to argue later. For now he’s just going to enjoy being home.
shealwaysreads 