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"Build your own cathedrals." [x]

"Build your own cathedrals." [x]



moonlettuce:


"Dance with me."
Peter looks up at the sound of Chris’ voice, ignoring the fact that he didn’t hear the other man approach. Ignoring that Chris Argent has apparently become such a part of his life that his senses no longer register the scent of wolfsbane and cordite as dangerous. (Even if Peter knows it’s not the wolfsbane and cordite. Knows it’s the scent under that; gun oil and leather and that ridiculously expensive aftershave that Chris keeps in the back of the bathroom cabinet that all blends together in safe and yes and Chris.)
Chris’ hand is outstretched, and the tie he’d been wearing earlier has been abandoned somewhere, allowing the top button of Chris’ shirt to be opened, exposing the base of his throat. (Not that Peter’s looking. He’s not. Because if he looks then he remembers how his mouth fits there perfectly, teeth and tongue and lips all working together until Chris’ skin is red and hot.)
"Sit down, Chris." The words are barely a hiss out of Peter’s lips, heavy with the concern that any minute now, someone is going to look over and wonder what’s going on. Or, even worse, they’re going to look over and know what’s going on. Because they’ve talked about this, about keeping what they are to each other to themselves. (It’s why Peter drives two towns over to get the ingredients for the spell to mask that each of their scents is ingrained in the other’s skin. It’s why he mixes herb and root and flower, even though his wolf howls every time he does so. Because he wants Chris to bear his mark. He wants to walk into pack meetings and have every single wolf there smell Chris on him, have them know exactly who Peter belongs to.)
But Chris doesn’t move, doesn’t drop his hand and doesn’t stop looking at Peter.
"Peter, I  just walked Allison down the aisle and watched her marry the man she loves. I watched her stand in front of everyone and declare this is the person I’m going to be with.”
Chris’ other hand reaches out, fingers running carefully through Peter’s hair.
"You’re not a dirty little secret, Peter. You’re the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and I would like to dance with you at my daughter’s wedding."
Wiggling the fingers of his still outstretched hand, Chris smiles. “Please.”
Meeting Chris’ smile, Peter curls his fingers around Chris’, allowing the other man to guide him between tables and onto the dance floor. There’s a brief moment of awkwardness as both of them automatically move towards leading, before Peter shakes his head with a smirk and defaults to Chris. (And it’s hardly the first time Peter has followed where Chris had led, is sure it won’t be the last.)
The rest of the pack are scattered around them, and Peter can feel each of them watching the two of them. But there’s no shouting, no recriminations. He glances over to where Allison is dancing with Isaac and a beat passes where Peter thinks he should have just stayed sitting down. But all Allison does is nod and smile, and Peter’s starting to think that this maybe isn’t as big a surprise to her as he’d thought it would be. Maybe it’s not a surprise to any of them.
The song that’s playing is soft, slow, and it’s easy for Peter to turn into Chris’ warmth, to rest his forehead against Chris’ and just breathe.
"We should dance more often," Chris murmurs.
Peter doesn’t disagree.
~
And Claire writes the schmoopiest schmoop that ever schmooped *\o/*

moonlettuce:

"Dance with me."

Peter looks up at the sound of Chris’ voice, ignoring the fact that he didn’t hear the other man approach. Ignoring that Chris Argent has apparently become such a part of his life that his senses no longer register the scent of wolfsbane and cordite as dangerous. (Even if Peter knows it’s not the wolfsbane and cordite. Knows it’s the scent under that; gun oil and leather and that ridiculously expensive aftershave that Chris keeps in the back of the bathroom cabinet that all blends together in safe and yes and Chris.)

Chris’ hand is outstretched, and the tie he’d been wearing earlier has been abandoned somewhere, allowing the top button of Chris’ shirt to be opened, exposing the base of his throat. (Not that Peter’s looking. He’s not. Because if he looks then he remembers how his mouth fits there perfectly, teeth and tongue and lips all working together until Chris’ skin is red and hot.)

"Sit down, Chris." The words are barely a hiss out of Peter’s lips, heavy with the concern that any minute now, someone is going to look over and wonder what’s going on. Or, even worse, they’re going to look over and know what’s going on. Because they’ve talked about this, about keeping what they are to each other to themselves. (It’s why Peter drives two towns over to get the ingredients for the spell to mask that each of their scents is ingrained in the other’s skin. It’s why he mixes herb and root and flower, even though his wolf howls every time he does so. Because he wants Chris to bear his mark. He wants to walk into pack meetings and have every single wolf there smell Chris on him, have them know exactly who Peter belongs to.)

But Chris doesn’t move, doesn’t drop his hand and doesn’t stop looking at Peter.

"Peter, I  just walked Allison down the aisle and watched her marry the man she loves. I watched her stand in front of everyone and declare this is the person I’m going to be with.”

Chris’ other hand reaches out, fingers running carefully through Peter’s hair.

"You’re not a dirty little secret, Peter. You’re the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, and I would like to dance with you at my daughter’s wedding."

Wiggling the fingers of his still outstretched hand, Chris smiles. “Please.”

Meeting Chris’ smile, Peter curls his fingers around Chris’, allowing the other man to guide him between tables and onto the dance floor. There’s a brief moment of awkwardness as both of them automatically move towards leading, before Peter shakes his head with a smirk and defaults to Chris. (And it’s hardly the first time Peter has followed where Chris had led, is sure it won’t be the last.)

The rest of the pack are scattered around them, and Peter can feel each of them watching the two of them. But there’s no shouting, no recriminations. He glances over to where Allison is dancing with Isaac and a beat passes where Peter thinks he should have just stayed sitting down. But all Allison does is nod and smile, and Peter’s starting to think that this maybe isn’t as big a surprise to her as he’d thought it would be. Maybe it’s not a surprise to any of them.

The song that’s playing is soft, slow, and it’s easy for Peter to turn into Chris’ warmth, to rest his forehead against Chris’ and just breathe.

"We should dance more often," Chris murmurs.

Peter doesn’t disagree.

~

And Claire writes the schmoopiest schmoop that ever schmooped *\o/*



moonlettuce:

corullinterests:

Fic now. I demand it.

The only question for this would be whether to go AU or canon.
AU:
Chris thinks maybe he should have thought the plan through more thoroughly before diving in. But the bounty on Peter Hale’s head had been too damn tempting to ignore. And yes, the other man had managed to slip away from more than half a dozen other bounty hunters over the last couple of years, but Chris had a plan. He had a plan and a pair of handcuffs whose keys were back with Allison.
Of course, he hadn’t factored in Hale managing to burn Chris’ license, his paperwork and the plane tickets that would take them back to LA. Hadn’t factored in a seven day drive across several states, as Hale fiddled with the radio and sang 70s rock at the top of his voice until Chris finally caved and smacked him just to shut him up.
And he certainly hadn’t factored in Hale pressing back against him as they shared the double in the cheap-ass motel room they’d stopped at, or the way Hale’s eyes had lingered over Chris’ body when they’d had to shower together, pink tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip as his gaze had landed on Chris’ crotch.
There’s only one thing Chris is certain of right now, that by the end of this week, he’ll have either shot Peter Hale or fucked him into a mattress somewhere. And he’s finding himself surprisingly fine with either of those options.
Canon:
There are days, Peter thinks, that he could cheerfully rip Stiles’ throat out. Yes, the boy has his uses, and his ability to think outside the box, and Derek seems inordinately fond of him, but still.
Because Stiles also has his unending curiosity, and his inability to leave anything alone. Which puts Peter in his current predicament.
I didn’t mean for that to happen, Stiles had said. And no, Stiles, hiding behind Derek won’t stop Peter’s claws from reaching you.
I was just experimenting, Stiles had continued. And Peter can feel the headache now, as he tries not to think about exactly why Stiles would need handcuffs that werewolves can’t break out of in Derek’s loft.
Sorry? Stiles had finished with, admittedly sounding a little contrite.
Not that that helps Peter in any way.
Argent grumbles next to him, shaking Peter’s wrist slightly as he tries to pick the lock on the handcuffs attaching them to each other.
"If you couldn’t do it the last four times, I fail to see why number five is going to be any better!" Peter snaps, pulling his wrist out of Argent’s grasp a little too forcefully and muttering as the other man almost lands on top of him and presses him into the couch.
"Because I don’t exactly relish being chained to you for the next week!" Argent replies, pushing himself up off Peter.
"It’ll be fine," Stiles tries to reassure them. "It’s only a week, and then Scott will be back with the keys."
Because of course Stiles hadn’t thought to get the keys out of the glovebox before lending Scott his jeep. And of course Scott was unreachable. And of course this was Peter’s goddamn life right now.
Argent sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as Peter glares at him. “Seven days,” he says. “We can last seven days, Hale.”
Seven days. Seven days of living with Argent (and seeing him every second of the day). Seven days of sleeping in the same bed as him (and seeing him mussed and sleep-warm when he just wakes up). Seven days of watching him in the morning (as his fingers curl around his mug, the sharp smell of coffee running over his lips and the incandescent little moan he gives as the caffeine hits his system). Seven days of showering with him (all wet and soapy and watching as the bubbles slide over his stomach and down towards his— )
Peter drops his head to rest on the back of the couch. Seven days. He is so fucked.

moonlettuce:

corullinterests:

Fic now. I demand it.

The only question for this would be whether to go AU or canon.

AU:

Chris thinks maybe he should have thought the plan through more thoroughly before diving in. But the bounty on Peter Hale’s head had been too damn tempting to ignore. And yes, the other man had managed to slip away from more than half a dozen other bounty hunters over the last couple of years, but Chris had a plan. He had a plan and a pair of handcuffs whose keys were back with Allison.

Of course, he hadn’t factored in Hale managing to burn Chris’ license, his paperwork and the plane tickets that would take them back to LA. Hadn’t factored in a seven day drive across several states, as Hale fiddled with the radio and sang 70s rock at the top of his voice until Chris finally caved and smacked him just to shut him up.

And he certainly hadn’t factored in Hale pressing back against him as they shared the double in the cheap-ass motel room they’d stopped at, or the way Hale’s eyes had lingered over Chris’ body when they’d had to shower together, pink tongue darting out to lick at his lower lip as his gaze had landed on Chris’ crotch.

There’s only one thing Chris is certain of right now, that by the end of this week, he’ll have either shot Peter Hale or fucked him into a mattress somewhere. And he’s finding himself surprisingly fine with either of those options.

Canon:

There are days, Peter thinks, that he could cheerfully rip Stiles’ throat out. Yes, the boy has his uses, and his ability to think outside the box, and Derek seems inordinately fond of him, but still.

Because Stiles also has his unending curiosity, and his inability to leave anything alone. Which puts Peter in his current predicament.

I didn’t mean for that to happen, Stiles had said. And no, Stiles, hiding behind Derek won’t stop Peter’s claws from reaching you.

I was just experimenting, Stiles had continued. And Peter can feel the headache now, as he tries not to think about exactly why Stiles would need handcuffs that werewolves can’t break out of in Derek’s loft.

Sorry? Stiles had finished with, admittedly sounding a little contrite.

Not that that helps Peter in any way.

Argent grumbles next to him, shaking Peter’s wrist slightly as he tries to pick the lock on the handcuffs attaching them to each other.

"If you couldn’t do it the last four times, I fail to see why number five is going to be any better!" Peter snaps, pulling his wrist out of Argent’s grasp a little too forcefully and muttering as the other man almost lands on top of him and presses him into the couch.

"Because I don’t exactly relish being chained to you for the next week!" Argent replies, pushing himself up off Peter.

"It’ll be fine," Stiles tries to reassure them. "It’s only a week, and then Scott will be back with the keys."

Because of course Stiles hadn’t thought to get the keys out of the glovebox before lending Scott his jeep. And of course Scott was unreachable. And of course this was Peter’s goddamn life right now.

Argent sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as Peter glares at him. “Seven days,” he says. “We can last seven days, Hale.”

Seven days. Seven days of living with Argent (and seeing him every second of the day). Seven days of sleeping in the same bed as him (and seeing him mussed and sleep-warm when he just wakes up). Seven days of watching him in the morning (as his fingers curl around his mug, the sharp smell of coffee running over his lips and the incandescent little moan he gives as the caffeine hits his system). Seven days of showering with him (all wet and soapy and watching as the bubbles slide over his stomach and down towards his— )

Peter drops his head to rest on the back of the couch. Seven days. He is so fucked.









quick hannibal sketch yo

quick hannibal sketch yo