Listen. Listen. I just took a double dose of cold medicine and I’m ready to ride this angst train into the jaws of hell.
Because Peter didn’t expect Stiles to take care of him. No one has taken care of him before, he’s always been perfectly self sufficient. Even as a child, his parents supplied his material needs and then left him to his own devices for everything else.
Peter doesn’t need anyone else to care for him, to care about him. If you ask him whether or not he wants someone to care for him, he’ll scoff and look down his nose at you… but he won’t answer.
And Stiles never wanted to be in this position again. After his dad got clean/Stiles left home/whatever, he was done. When he’s out with friends, Stiles stays for two drinks and leaves, every time. He’s never around when people get sloppy drunk because he knows he would feel obligated to help, and he’s done doing that.
So part of the reason Stiles turned the water on Peter was because he was angry. Angry at Peter for getting this drunk, angry at himself for seeking out Peter when he knew he would be this drunk- kind of hoping that the shock of water will sober him up enough that he’ll get up and take care of himself.
Instead, Peter just says “thanks” and then passes out in the shower.
And Stiles considers leaving him there. He really does, but he’s worried, and frustrated, and every of the other ten thousand feelings that come with caring about Peter Hale, and all of those feelings combined outweigh Stiles’ determination to never be put back in the same caretaker situation he was in with his dad as a child.
So he takes Peter home.
Cleans him up.
Puts him in recovery position.
And waits for him to wake up.
Peter’s hangover muddles his brain enough that it takes him a few minutes in the morning. When he finally realizes that he’s at Stiles’, that Stiles must have taken care of him last night, a part of him is thrilled. He feels loved in a way he’s not used to experiencing.
Stiles, on the other hand, upon seeing Peter awake and no longer in danger of choking to death on his own vomit, is furious.
He tears into Peter (loudly, with zero regard for Peter’s hangover) yelling about how irresponsible that was, and how Stiles isn’t a babysitter, and how Peter needs to start taking care of himself-
And that’s when Peter starts to cut back with words, because like hell is anyone going to accuse him of not taking care of himself when that’s all he’s ever done.
They’re both frustrated and confused and full of all those deep emotions that are so, so terrifying when you’ve had a childhood filled with coping rather than growing.
In the end, it comes down to Peter yelling (hangover be damned), “I didn’t ask you to come take care of me!”
And Stiles of course yells back, “You didn’t have to ask me to take care of you, that’s just what you do when you love someone!”
Peter is stunned into silence, but Stiles isn’t done yelling. He keeps going.
“I just never wanted to love someone who would put me that position again!”
And now they’re both silent, staring at each other.
Because where do you go from there?
JFC, @twothumbsandnostakeincanon , get your germ-encrusted fingers off the keyboard and go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. I need to fix this shit before you make me bawl like a baby at almost-2am.
Peter’s stunned like he almost never is, and Stiles is silent, won’t look him in the eyes as he starts to move around the apartment angrily, slamming around the kitchen as he makes breakfast and tortures Peter’s poor booze-soaked brain at the same time. It’s efficient, he’ll give the boy that.
He hauls his sorry carcass up and into the shower, and is too busy trying to wake up and put together the pieces of Stiles’s explosive cocktail of love and fury to snoop through the medicine cabinet while he’s in there. By the time he’s puttering back out in borrowed sweats and an old hoodie that has Stiles’s scent engrained in the fabric, he thinks he has the general shape of things–which is enough to make him push down his own resentment and bitterness, because he can indulge those later, but this, what Stiles said, that can’t be put off.
He waits until they’re both seated in front of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Why would you say you love me?” He asks it like it’s not important, like the answer he gets isn’t going to be the single deciding factor in where his life goes from here. Like this isn’t a fork in the road.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Why do you think I said it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think your father is a functioning alcoholic, and that he had a non-functioning phase you had to steer him out of. I also think that you’re projecting your daddy issues onto a man old enough to be your father who happens to enjoy bickering as a hobby.” He smirks, and if it has more of an edge than usual, no one will know. “But, if it’s closure you’re after, kiddo, by all means, consider me at your service.”
So, FYI you guys, sometimes if you go to your favorite writers and flail at them a lot about how much you love their fics with lots of specific examples, they will let you read thousands of words of their unpublished WIPs and you can flail even more. Also sometimes after that you get to be friends, too, and help them come up with ideas. And vice versa! This is pretty much the best thing in the world and it is called fandom.
Listen. Listen. I just took a double dose of cold medicine and I’m ready to ride this angst train into the jaws of hell.
Because Peter didn’t expect Stiles to take care of him. No one has taken care of him before, he’s always been perfectly self sufficient. Even as a child, his parents supplied his material needs and then left him to his own devices for everything else.
Peter doesn’t need anyone else to care for him, to care about him. If you ask him whether or not he wants someone to care for him, he’ll scoff and look down his nose at you… but he won’t answer.
And Stiles never wanted to be in this position again. After his dad got clean/Stiles left home/whatever, he was done. When he’s out with friends, Stiles stays for two drinks and leaves, every time. He’s never around when people get sloppy drunk because he knows he would feel obligated to help, and he’s done doing that.
So part of the reason Stiles turned the water on Peter was because he was angry. Angry at Peter for getting this drunk, angry at himself for seeking out Peter when he knew he would be this drunk- kind of hoping that the shock of water will sober him up enough that he’ll get up and take care of himself.
Instead, Peter just says “thanks” and then passes out in the shower.
And Stiles considers leaving him there. He really does, but he’s worried, and frustrated, and every of the other ten thousand feelings that come with caring about Peter Hale, and all of those feelings combined outweigh Stiles’ determination to never be put back in the same caretaker situation he was in with his dad as a child.
So he takes Peter home.
Cleans him up.
Puts him in recovery position.
And waits for him to wake up.
Peter’s hangover muddles his brain enough that it takes him a few minutes in the morning. When he finally realizes that he’s at Stiles’, that Stiles must have taken care of him last night, a part of him is thrilled. He feels loved in a way he’s not used to experiencing.
Stiles, on the other hand, upon seeing Peter awake and no longer in danger of choking to death on his own vomit, is furious.
He tears into Peter (loudly, with zero regard for Peter’s hangover) yelling about how irresponsible that was, and how Stiles isn’t a babysitter, and how Peter needs to start taking care of himself-
And that’s when Peter starts to cut back with words, because like hell is anyone going to accuse him of not taking care of himself when that’s all he’s ever done.
They’re both frustrated and confused and full of all those deep emotions that are so, so terrifying when you’ve had a childhood filled with coping rather than growing.
In the end, it comes down to Peter yelling (hangover be damned), “I didn’t ask you to come take care of me!”
And Stiles of course yells back, “You didn’t have to ask me to take care of you, that’s just what you do when you love someone!”
Peter is stunned into silence, but Stiles isn’t done yelling. He keeps going.
“I just never wanted to love someone who would put me that position again!”
And now they’re both silent, staring at each other.
Because where do you go from there?
JFC, @twothumbsandnostakeincanon , get your germ-encrusted fingers off the keyboard and go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. I need to fix this shit before you make me bawl like a baby at almost-2am.
Peter’s stunned like he almost never is, and Stiles is silent, won’t look him in the eyes as he starts to move around the apartment angrily, slamming around the kitchen as he makes breakfast and tortures Peter’s poor booze-soaked brain at the same time. It’s efficient, he’ll give the boy that.
He hauls his sorry carcass up and into the shower, and is too busy trying to wake up and put together the pieces of Stiles’s explosive cocktail of love and fury to snoop through the medicine cabinet while he’s in there. By the time he’s puttering back out in borrowed sweats and an old hoodie that has Stiles’s scent engrained in the fabric, he thinks he has the general shape of things–which is enough to make him push down his own resentment and bitterness, because he can indulge those later, but this, what Stiles said, that can’t be put off.
He waits until they’re both seated in front of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Why would you say you love me?” He asks it like it’s not important, like the answer he gets isn’t going to be the single deciding factor in where his life goes from here. Like this isn’t a fork in the road.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Why do you think I said it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think your father is a functioning alcoholic, and that he had a non-functioning phase you had to steer him out of. I also think that you’re projecting your daddy issues onto a man old enough to be your father who happens to enjoy bickering as a hobby.” He smirks, and if it has more of an edge than usual, no one will know. “But, if it’s closure you’re after, kiddo, by all means, consider me at your service.”
Listen. Listen. I just took a double dose of cold medicine and I’m ready to ride this angst train into the jaws of hell.
Because Peter didn’t expect Stiles to take care of him. No one has taken care of him before, he’s always been perfectly self sufficient. Even as a child, his parents supplied his material needs and then left him to his own devices for everything else.
Peter doesn’t need anyone else to care for him, to care about him. If you ask him whether or not he wants someone to care for him, he’ll scoff and look down his nose at you… but he won’t answer.
And Stiles never wanted to be in this position again. After his dad got clean/Stiles left home/whatever, he was done. When he’s out with friends, Stiles stays for two drinks and leaves, every time. He’s never around when people get sloppy drunk because he knows he would feel obligated to help, and he’s done doing that.
So part of the reason Stiles turned the water on Peter was because he was angry. Angry at Peter for getting this drunk, angry at himself for seeking out Peter when he knew he would be this drunk- kind of hoping that the shock of water will sober him up enough that he’ll get up and take care of himself.
Instead, Peter just says “thanks” and then passes out in the shower.
And Stiles considers leaving him there. He really does, but he’s worried, and frustrated, and every of the other ten thousand feelings that come with caring about Peter Hale, and all of those feelings combined outweigh Stiles’ determination to never be put back in the same caretaker situation he was in with his dad as a child.
So he takes Peter home.
Cleans him up.
Puts him in recovery position.
And waits for him to wake up.
Peter’s hangover muddles his brain enough that it takes him a few minutes in the morning. When he finally realizes that he’s at Stiles’, that Stiles must have taken care of him last night, a part of him is thrilled. He feels loved in a way he’s not used to experiencing.
Stiles, on the other hand, upon seeing Peter awake and no longer in danger of choking to death on his own vomit, is furious.
He tears into Peter (loudly, with zero regard for Peter’s hangover) yelling about how irresponsible that was, and how Stiles isn’t a babysitter, and how Peter needs to start taking care of himself-
And that’s when Peter starts to cut back with words, because like hell is anyone going to accuse him of not taking care of himself when that’s all he’s ever done.
They’re both frustrated and confused and full of all those deep emotions that are so, so terrifying when you’ve had a childhood filled with coping rather than growing.
In the end, it comes down to Peter yelling (hangover be damned), “I didn’t ask you to come take care of me!”
And Stiles of course yells back, “You didn’t have to ask me to take care of you, that’s just what you do when you love someone!”
Peter is stunned into silence, but Stiles isn’t done yelling. He keeps going.
“I just never wanted to love someone who would put me that position again!”
And now they’re both silent, staring at each other.
Because where do you go from there?
JFC, @twothumbsandnostakeincanon , get your germ-encrusted fingers off the keyboard and go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. I need to fix this shit before you make me bawl like a baby at almost-2am.
Peter’s stunned like he almost never is, and Stiles is silent, won’t look him in the eyes as he starts to move around the apartment angrily, slamming around the kitchen as he makes breakfast and tortures Peter’s poor booze-soaked brain at the same time. It’s efficient, he’ll give the boy that.
He hauls his sorry carcass up and into the shower, and is too busy trying to wake up and put together the pieces of Stiles’s explosive cocktail of love and fury to snoop through the medicine cabinet while he’s in there. By the time he’s puttering back out in borrowed sweats and an old hoodie that has Stiles’s scent engrained in the fabric, he thinks he has the general shape of things–which is enough to make him push down his own resentment and bitterness, because he can indulge those later, but this, what Stiles said, that can’t be put off.
He waits until they’re both seated in front of scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Why would you say you love me?” He asks it like it’s not important, like the answer he gets isn’t going to be the single deciding factor in where his life goes from here. Like this isn’t a fork in the road.
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Gee, Peter, I don’t know. Why do you think I said it?”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think your father is a functioning alcoholic, and that he had a non-functioning phase you had to steer him out of. I also think that you’re projecting your daddy issues onto a man old enough to be your father who happens to enjoy bickering as a hobby.” He smirks, and if it has more of an edge than usual, no one will know. “But, if it’s closure you’re after, kiddo, by all means, consider me at your service.”
Stiles drops his face into his hands, muttering, “You monumental fucking asshole,” before he lifts his head back up to glare. “Look, fuckface, you don’t get to tell me how I do or don’t feel about you, because last time I checked, your degree was in environmental engineering, and not clinical psychology, so clear the shit out of your ears, and listen carefully to my heartbeat.” He leans forward, jaw clenched and still furious, but his heart doesn’t stutter as he deliberately enunciates each word. “I love you, you fucking prick.”
“Oh.” That’s–Peter needs a moment.
Of course, he doesn’t get one, because Stiles throws his hands up in the air. “’Oh’, he says! Yeah, fucking ‘oh’!” He stops and rubs his eyes. “You know, I was never going to tell you. It was just, going to be this thing that existed quietly until it didn’t and that we never verbally acknowledged.”
“And why’s that?” Peter asks, whisper-soft.
Stiles’s eyes are sad, even as one side of his mouth quirks into a gentle half-smile. “Because, this? Us? This can’t work, Peter. No matter how much I want it to.”
And oh, but the threat of having it taken away before he ever got the chance to hold it, to try, to fuck it up, feels like claws in the gut. “Why can’t it? If we both want it, why not try?”
Stiles gives an incredulous huff. “Jesus, what do you mean ‘why’? As evidenced by this morning, we’ve both got a bunch of fucking issues–and don’t even try to deny you have them, okay, you would not have gotten blackout drunk if you didn’t–and that’s.” He huffs again, but it’s wet this time, and Peter wants to say no, please don’t cry, but Stiles goes on before he can. “And just. This? This morning? That is not what I want my life to be, okay? I’m in a place where I get to choose what I want it to be, and it’s not–it’s not this.”
He ducks his head, but it doesn’t do jack for the salt-scent of gathering tears. Peter slips from his chair, crouching on the floor beside him. “You are allowed to decide, sweetheart. But I still think we deserve to give this a shot. You want it, and I want it, and if get to choose, why not try?”
Stiles laughs, even as he covers his face to hide the tears rolling down his face. “Therapy. We are getting so, so much therapy. I’ll drag you there at gunpoint if I have to.”
Peter stands and wraps an arm around the young man’s shoulders, dropping a kiss on the top of his head. “No weapons necessary, darling. I have the numbers of a few who know about all this. We can call and set up meetings, see if there’s anyone we click with.”
Stiles drags in a deep, shuddering breath. “Okay. God, this–this is absolutely, off-the-reservation crazy, but. Okay. Just,” he looks up, and his gorgeous face is raw and tired and Peter’s never quite wanted to kiss him this badly, “don’t–don’t do that to me again.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. “I won’t,” Peter promises, and he means it, too. The look on Stiles’s face says he’s not convinced, but he’s got time, now, to convince Stiles that he means it.
He’s surprised when he’s gently pushed away. “Now sit down and finish your breakfast.”
He salutes sarcastically, but there’s a warm little glow in his stomach, at being fed, provided for. He doesn’t say anything about it, not now, not this soon, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t savour it.
Lydia’s lips purse and her eyes narrow, and oh, oh shit. Allison gets the sinking-gut feeling that tells her she’s not gonna win this one.
“Why?”
It throws Allie for a loop. “Why what?”
Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder, cocking a hip to plant her hand there. “Why don’t you want to do a photo shoot with the bike? You love the bike.”
Her cheeks heat, because yeah, Lydia’s made sure she loves the bike. “Yeah, but I don’t trust whatever you’re planning, and I do not need my dad knowing that we’ve defiled one of his motorcycles.”
Lydia hummed, looking thoughtful. “Okay, yeah, I–what if I promise to keep it tasteful? Just a couple shots, nothing explicit, suggestive only?”
With that worry assuaged, Allison’s a little intrigued now. “Who’re you gonna get to take the photos?”
“The usual guy I model for. I’ve agreed to do a couple sessions for free in return for this, and I offered a little incentive for everything from this set to remain private.”
Allie’s eyebrows climb her face. “As opposed to what? Plastered all over the internet?”
Lydia rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Allie, no! As opposed to in his portfolio, for prospective clients to view!”
She bites her lip, turning away. “I still don’t know.”
Lydia slinks closer, sliding her arms around Allie’s waist and pressing up against her. “What if I let you bend me over the bike after he leaves?”
And oh, but that’s almost enough to make her agree. She’s wanted to bend her prissy princess over the bike for weeks now.
Lydia looks up at her coyly. “You can pick out the toy, if you want. Put it in your new harness?”
Allie leans down and kisses the strawberry-glossed lips. “Sold.”
Lydia’s lips purse and her eyes narrow, and oh, oh shit. Allison gets the sinking-gut feeling that tells her she’s not gonna win this one.
“Why?”
It throws Allie for a loop. “Why what?”
Lydia tosses her hair over her shoulder, cocking a hip to plant her hand there. “Why don’t you want to do a photo shoot with the bike? You love the bike.”
Her cheeks heat, because yeah, Lydia’s made sure she loves the bike. “Yeah, but I don’t trust whatever you’re planning, and I do not need my dad knowing that we’ve defiled one of his motorcycles.”
Lydia hummed, looking thoughtful. “Okay, yeah, I–what if I promise to keep it tasteful? Just a couple shots, nothing explicit, suggestive only?”
With that worry assuaged, Allison’s a little intrigued now. “Who’re you gonna get to take the photos?”
“The usual guy I model for. I’ve agreed to do a couple sessions for free in return for this, and I offered a little incentive for everything from this set to remain private.”
Allie’s eyebrows climb her face. “As opposed to what? Plastered all over the internet?”
Lydia rolls her eyes. “Jesus, Allie, no! As opposed to in his portfolio, for prospective clients to view!”
She bites her lip, turning away. “I still don’t know.”
Lydia slinks closer, sliding her arms around Allie’s waist and pressing up against her. “What if I let you bend me over the bike after he leaves?”
And oh, but that’s almost enough to make her agree. She’s wanted to bend her prissy princess over the bike for weeks now.
Lydia looks up at her coyly. “You can pick out the toy, if you want. Put it in your new harness?”
Allie leans down and kisses the strawberry-glossed lips. “Sold.”
In case you missed it: my fill for the FandomCares: Vannybees auction! My winning bidder was @bunnywest, who requested a fourth (and final!) instalment to the Bad Daddy Argent series.
So, update: because the pace of Kinktober is so fast, and I am participating this year (albeit with fewer prompt fills than last year), I’m not going to run Teaser Tuesdays this month. Fresh fic will be coming from me every few days, and at that point, what’s left to tease?
I’m also hoping to make some more progress on the arranged marriage fic, though, so stay tuned for that–as soon as I have a peek worth sneaking, you shall know.
Hi there! So, instead of teasing you with a snippet of something, which is the usual on Teaser Tuesday, I’m just straight-up giving you porn in the middle of the week. Because Kinktober.
Queer Fiction Writer 