[ The compliment's a little unexpected, and it makes the tips of his ears turn pink. He's really not used to being anything more than the irritating southron nuisance, no matter how much time they've spent developing a rapport, and the occasional reminder that he's not, actually, completely screwing up this whole lupa thing is a little flustering. He grins sheepishly, shrugging a shoulder. ]
It's because I'm secretly five. Not much of a threat.
[ He's never really been a threat at all, not in this pack, and it's part exhilirating and part terrifying--one, that they've accepted him almost completely, but on the other, they all could have killed him with one false move. And considering Stiles' life is 90% false moves, he's thrilled he's done so well so far.
The look on his face softens a little as he glances towards the tent they've been waiting in, where Deaton is probably waiting to do some sort of unspeakable thing with this tattoo, but his jittery nerves are mostly quelled as he thinks about his mom, thinks about Derek, and squeezes his hand. ]
So, let's get the agonizing painful nightmare over with, I want to sleep forever.
[ Rolling his eyes-- almost affectionately-- Derek chuffs softly and decides not to point out the flustered look he takes on in response. But it's true, he really has become the lupa of the pack over time. Trial and error has lead him right where he's needed to be, even if there was a rocky path towards the position. And, truth be told, the faoladh's developed alongside him. He feels a little more at ease in his own pack, like he should be.
It's good to have the help, and good to have the anchor that he's apparently been lacking. The tie between him and his pack.
He looks off to the tent thoughtfully, thumb rubbing absent circles along the side of Stiles' hand as he considers the tattooing process. It hurts, he can remember getting both of his when he was younger. Those had been done with heated needles, to ensure that the tattoos would take. Thankfully, Stiles won't have to deal with that.
After a moment, he returns the squeeze and looks down at him again. ]
I don't trust your definition of fine. [ Rolling his eyes, he stares at the tent entrance for a moment, puffs out a breath, squares his shoulders, and strides forward, lifting the flap with his free hand and sliding inside.
Yeah. There are needles and all kinds of god only knows what other painful things sitting there near the fur pile, and Stiles jitters over to sit by the soft spoken doctor--the healer of the pack, naturally, is the one who everyone seems to trust with the sharp pointy instruments of death. He's not one to mince words about this either, and by the time he's settled, Derek sitting beside him, he's talking to himself about this. ]
Okay. Just needles. Just a needle. Just a really, really, really huge needle.
[ But before he can psych himself up completely--before Deaton even gets the first dot of color onto his bicep, Stiles is reminded very quickly that he's squeamish as hell, and the possibility of what's going to happen makes him, literally, faint. ]
He shares a look with Deaton, sighing heavily as he catches Stiles with his own bicep across his chest. But a soft smile twinges across his face as he rearranges where they're seated, settling behind Stiles and holding him against him with unsurprising ease by his arms around his waist.
Once he's comfortable, chin propped on his shoulder, he holds Stiles in place and lets Deaton get started. (Ignoring the amused cluck of his tongue that the healer and guide offers them as he takes hold of Stiles' arm to begin working.)
But while he inks, and Stiles is dead to the world, Derek takes advantage of the moment to quietly murmur in his ear, absent stories that Talia used to tell him and his sisters when they were distressed, when he and Laura both got their first tattoos. ]
[ Aside from the fact that he's occasionally twitching or drooling on Derek's shoulder, Stiles is blissfully conked for the rest of the procedure, if not a little after it.
And when he does, he's dreaming.
It's not the most concrete image in the world--it's strong and clear though, like he's living in the middle of the snow hushed woods where it's taking place. There's a wolf, at first, pale white and beautiful, nothing like the ones he's seen around camp, and the moment Stiles sees it, there's this inexplicable urge to run, to chase, to go towards it and catch it and hold it in his arms. His feet start to carry him, crunching in the snow, as he realizes belatedly that there are paws underneath him, golden and, his mind decides, all his, not at all foreign as he runs, runs, runs after the other wolf.
There's a desperate noise that escapes him as he gets close--he can almost reach the white one's tail, but then, out of nowhere, he's gone, vanished into the darkness, and Stiles snaps awake.
It takes him about ten seconds to fully reboot from everything that just happened, and Stiles' brain registers the pain, first. ]--Motherfucker!
[ And then, he blinks, blearily, staring up at--Derek. His arm hurts like hell, but there's also another body wrapped around his, warm and comforting, and he pauses for a moment to stare up at him with big brown doe eyes. eyes. ] ...whuh just happened.
[ There's always at least one story for everything beyond the Wall-- how the crows and ravens passed on their sight; how wolves grew close to man before they became men themselves; why the snow continues to fall, and fall, and fall-- and where written word isn't valued so much as the spoken, Derek knows as many of them as he can hold onto.
But there's been one that's stuck with him for years, and years, and years, ever since his uncle told it to him when he was young, when Laura hadn't even gotten her band yet, and Cora was still suckling. He'd listened with wide eyes as Peter had told the tale, enraptured more than ever as silver and gold wove together in his mind.
And it's been tucked away in the back of his mind, nothing more than an occasional story for his young packmates.
Until he met Stiles.
His eyes snap open from where he's closed them at the first noise that comes from Stiles, and he goes quiet, arms tightening gently around his middle. But with the exclamation, everything in him actually relaxes, an amused sound leaving him. It fades quickly, though, as he looks back at those eyes. Warm and bright, they hit him square in the chest harder than anything else has.
[ He directs his gaze away from Derek's again and looks around. Deaton is gone-his words register, and Stiles blinks, shifting around in Derek's grip in what's a subdued flail of his limbs before he holds out his right arm. Sure enough, there's a band on it, black instead of red like Derek's, and he freezes in his movements to stare at it, going from shocked to interested to appreciative. ]
Whoa. [ And then, a smile breaks out on his face instead, and he moves his arm around to try and actually look at it. ] Oh my god, awesome.
[ Eventually, he drops his arm, realizing exactly what happened--vaguely recalling the dream, and he leans backwards into Derek's shoulder, making a face. Not exactly his finest moment. ] So, I guess any manly points I won for killing something and getting a tattoo I lost in the past twenty minutes.
[ Loosening his arms once Stiles isn't moving his limbs about, Derek lifts his chin to let him move freely, watching him. Color can be added later on, between the whorls and spaces in the band, but right now it's pristine black on agitated skin.
And it's the mark of his pack. Stiles is officially pack, though he isn't officially Derek's yet.
He chuffs faintly, holding his hand on Stiles' hip and considering the comment. ]
When my sister and I got our tattoos, my mom held our hands while my dad did the ink.
And let me guess, no one passed out. [ Oh well. He's still admiring the ink, and everything that comes with it. He's officially a part of the "pack" now, a boy who runs with wolves, and slowly fulfilling the terms of his engagement, although not in the order they typically went.
Things in the North were a lot different than they were down in the South, he mused. He'd been expecting some kind of Dothraki esque warlord to throw him around and beat him up and use him occasionally for sexual tension, but this was completely different. He'd had the chance to build up to it, to work up actual bonds within the pack, and with Derek himself.
He'd been pack for a while now, really, just not officially.
Stiles settles back into place for a minute, still tucked under Derek's chin. It's comfortable and warm, and he looks up at him for a moment, regarding him with a look. ]
I appreciate the fact that you at least waited till I was passed out if you laughed at me.
Definitely cried. [ To be fair, though, he had only recently turned thirteen and had tried very, very hard not to. But it was years ago, now-- eleven, seven hells-- and he'd experienced worse pains than this. He'd gone through loss and betrayal, through separation between he and his older sister for the longest time, and been battered for years. Getting ink was lasting, but not the worst thing he'd gone through.
The tattoos to indicate pack were a good indicator of differences between the wolves beyond the Wall and the horses of the plains, but not the only one. There was nothing to conquer in the North, not when eternal winter was the only conqueror. It meant no need for warlords, no real need for wars or conquests, not even when packs became enemies. So there was more of an internal focus, when it came to packs, rather than the external reach of the Dothraki.
Bonds could be forged, and the pack, the family, could grow through that rather than the growing armies in the South.
Raising his eyebrows down at Stiles as he looks up at him, Derek snorts softly and tilts his head, rubbing his cheek against his hair. ]
I'm gonna pretend that happened like a couple months ago instead of like ten years ago, and that might actually make me feel better.
[ Stiles is starting to think--at least lately--that the idea of an engagement, of marriage, isn't so bad. There's a lot about Derek that he's grown to learn since he first got here--he got up early in the mornings, he told the faolan stories and loves them more than life itself, that he's gruff but not necessarily unfunny, that he snores and tends to curl up around Stiles when he sleeps.
He'd grown to trust Derek with his life instead of fearing it. Grown fine with learning his ways, training with him, rolling around in the grass, playing with the faolan, sharing stories around the great bonfire. He was impossibly brave and smart, the kind of hero that Stiles always sort of wanted to be. (The kind of son he'd wanted to be for his dad.)
He drops his head a little to allow Derek to do so, mouth turning up in a smile where he can't see--absently, his hands come around to cover Derek's. ]
Ooof course he did. Great. Like my reputation around her isn't bad enough.
It'll be almost twelve years now, I think. [ Derek that isn't helping.
But the teasing has been common between them, these days. Not when they've spent some time with each other, where they've learned about one another over that time. The same as Stiles has learned about him, Derek has learned about Stiles. How he hates mornings but can be bribed out of bed in a variety of ways, though he talked and snored and drooled in his sleep-- and if the faoladh didn't wrap himself around him, he would roll right out of the furs and probably freeze to death before he even realized it-- and nevermind how he used his quick wit in such unconventional ways.
Especially when it came to their conversations, either heated and loud or soft and quiet. As frustrated as he could be, he could never quite choose one over the other. Their heated moments brought out that damned spark that had fascinated him from the start, that had him bringing him back to his pack instead of leaving him in the wilds of the North.
And it was that spark that showed him that there was far more to Stiles Stilinski than he ever gave himself credit for.
The fact that Stiles lets him give such affectionate gestures now isn't lost on Derek, and he buries his nose in his hair once he's properly scented him. His fingers spread beneath Stiles', and he lets out a chuff of a laugh. ]
Really not helping on that whole supportive thing.
[ Stiles rolls his eyes and leans backwards into Derek's arms, tilting his head back against his shoulder. It's comfortable and warm, and he's able to keep his arm away from anything that might hurt it a little more. He's gotten so used to Derek now that this is safe, like it had been when he was sick, like he'd been curled up in the furs with him all these nights. It's undeniable he's gone from terrified and frustrated about being here to actually enjoying it--feeling safer here than he had in a while.
There's something about this place--something in his blood that's just settled since he's arrived. Like something in his heart was running and running, and finally, finally, it was starting to get onto its target's tail.
He lolls a little away from him across his shoulder, showing his neck to the faoladh, and obviously on purpose, and a low snort escapes him. ] Yeah, tell that to the rest of the pack.
[ Making sure that Stiles is comfortable, and his arm isn't at risk of being bumped against anything, Derek sinks into his seat and lets himself relax further. Though Stiles is all limbs and lack of coordination, far from being a fighter, he feels safe. Anchored. Like he spent years lost in the dark, only for the moon to finally reach through the clouds to show him the way back home. (And all he can think of is that story, gold chasing silver over and over and over again, constellations spread across white.)
Though relaxed, almost at peace with everything, his body bristles a little as Stiles lolls his head away. But there's no aggression, no threat to the lupa as he bares himself.
Instead, he simply drags his nose down from his hair and behind the curve of his ear, following some unmarked path until he can brush his lips against pale skin, soft and barely there. ] I don't know what you're talking about, they like you.
[ There's no real vitriol behind it, though. He hums at the feeling of Derek's mouth, tiny and flustering, enough to make his chest constrict with butterflies--kind of a ridiculous sensation, but there's no better word for it, like he can barely breathe with the force of the affection he's starting to feel for the faoladh. That he's been feeling for a while. They have yet to do anything even remotely romantic, and it doesn't really matter; it made things feel natural instead of rushed, like the undeniable chemistry that'd been there from the first day evolved into something real.
It's sure as hell helped things along, anyway. He shakes his head minutely and snorts, grin turning up soft and affectionate, something private he'd never share with anyone else. ] There's a fine, fine line between "like" and "tolerate", oh wise Alpha. You of all people toe it better than anyone.
[ That is, of course, said against Stiles' neck, which negates any namecalling that he might partake in completely. It's sort of funny that they can sit like this, affection shared in banter and slow growth. A part of him wants to open his mouth to Stiles' skin, the wild instincts that thrum in his blood, so that he can leave a mark on the warm, pale neck beneath his mouth.
But he doesn't. Instead, he sits and enjoys the quiet of the moment, closing his eyes and letting himself smile. Even if Stiles can't see it, he knows he'll feel it.
And he doesn't care. Not when they've come to the point they have. ] Funny, I feel like you've perfected that yourself.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
It's because I'm secretly five. Not much of a threat.
[ He's never really been a threat at all, not in this pack, and it's part exhilirating and part terrifying--one, that they've accepted him almost completely, but on the other, they all could have killed him with one false move. And considering Stiles' life is 90% false moves, he's thrilled he's done so well so far.
The look on his face softens a little as he glances towards the tent they've been waiting in, where Deaton is probably waiting to do some sort of unspeakable thing with this tattoo, but his jittery nerves are mostly quelled as he thinks about his mom, thinks about Derek, and squeezes his hand. ]
So, let's get the agonizing painful nightmare over with, I want to sleep forever.
no subject
It's good to have the help, and good to have the anchor that he's apparently been lacking. The tie between him and his pack.
He looks off to the tent thoughtfully, thumb rubbing absent circles along the side of Stiles' hand as he considers the tattooing process. It hurts, he can remember getting both of his when he was younger. Those had been done with heated needles, to ensure that the tattoos would take. Thankfully, Stiles won't have to deal with that.
After a moment, he returns the squeeze and looks down at him again. ]
You'll be fine. Come on.
no subject
Yeah. There are needles and all kinds of god only knows what other painful things sitting there near the fur pile, and Stiles jitters over to sit by the soft spoken doctor--the healer of the pack, naturally, is the one who everyone seems to trust with the sharp pointy instruments of death. He's not one to mince words about this either, and by the time he's settled, Derek sitting beside him, he's talking to himself about this. ]
Okay. Just needles. Just a needle. Just a really, really, really huge needle.
[ But before he can psych himself up completely--before Deaton even gets the first dot of color onto his bicep, Stiles is reminded very quickly that he's squeamish as hell, and the possibility of what's going to happen makes him, literally, faint. ]
no subject
He shares a look with Deaton, sighing heavily as he catches Stiles with his own bicep across his chest. But a soft smile twinges across his face as he rearranges where they're seated, settling behind Stiles and holding him against him with unsurprising ease by his arms around his waist.
Once he's comfortable, chin propped on his shoulder, he holds Stiles in place and lets Deaton get started. (Ignoring the amused cluck of his tongue that the healer and guide offers them as he takes hold of Stiles' arm to begin working.)
But while he inks, and Stiles is dead to the world, Derek takes advantage of the moment to quietly murmur in his ear, absent stories that Talia used to tell him and his sisters when they were distressed, when he and Laura both got their first tattoos. ]
no subject
And when he does, he's dreaming.
It's not the most concrete image in the world--it's strong and clear though, like he's living in the middle of the snow hushed woods where it's taking place. There's a wolf, at first, pale white and beautiful, nothing like the ones he's seen around camp, and the moment Stiles sees it, there's this inexplicable urge to run, to chase, to go towards it and catch it and hold it in his arms. His feet start to carry him, crunching in the snow, as he realizes belatedly that there are paws underneath him, golden and, his mind decides, all his, not at all foreign as he runs, runs, runs after the other wolf.
There's a desperate noise that escapes him as he gets close--he can almost reach the white one's tail, but then, out of nowhere, he's gone, vanished into the darkness, and Stiles snaps awake.
It takes him about ten seconds to fully reboot from everything that just happened, and Stiles' brain registers the pain, first. ]--Motherfucker!
[ And then, he blinks, blearily, staring up at--Derek. His arm hurts like hell, but there's also another body wrapped around his, warm and comforting, and he pauses for a moment to stare up at him with big brown
doe eyes.eyes. ] ...whuh just happened.no subject
But there's been one that's stuck with him for years, and years, and years, ever since his uncle told it to him when he was young, when Laura hadn't even gotten her band yet, and Cora was still suckling. He'd listened with wide eyes as Peter had told the tale, enraptured more than ever as silver and gold wove together in his mind.
And it's been tucked away in the back of his mind, nothing more than an occasional story for his young packmates.
Until he met Stiles.
His eyes snap open from where he's closed them at the first noise that comes from Stiles, and he goes quiet, arms tightening gently around his middle. But with the exclamation, everything in him actually relaxes, an amused sound leaving him. It fades quickly, though, as he looks back at those eyes. Warm and bright, they hit him square in the chest harder than anything else has.
But it doesn't hurt. ]
Deaton's been done for a short time now.
no subject
Whoa. [ And then, a smile breaks out on his face instead, and he moves his arm around to try and actually look at it. ] Oh my god, awesome.
[ Eventually, he drops his arm, realizing exactly what happened--vaguely recalling the dream, and he leans backwards into Derek's shoulder, making a face. Not exactly his finest moment. ] So, I guess any manly points I won for killing something and getting a tattoo I lost in the past twenty minutes.
no subject
And it's the mark of his pack. Stiles is officially pack, though he isn't officially Derek's yet.
He chuffs faintly, holding his hand on Stiles' hip and considering the comment. ]
When my sister and I got our tattoos, my mom held our hands while my dad did the ink.
no subject
Things in the North were a lot different than they were down in the South, he mused. He'd been expecting some kind of Dothraki esque warlord to throw him around and beat him up and use him occasionally for sexual tension, but this was completely different. He'd had the chance to build up to it, to work up actual bonds within the pack, and with Derek himself.
He'd been pack for a while now, really, just not officially.
Stiles settles back into place for a minute, still tucked under Derek's chin. It's comfortable and warm, and he looks up at him for a moment, regarding him with a look. ]
I appreciate the fact that you at least waited till I was passed out if you laughed at me.
no subject
The tattoos to indicate pack were a good indicator of differences between the wolves beyond the Wall and the horses of the plains, but not the only one. There was nothing to conquer in the North, not when eternal winter was the only conqueror. It meant no need for warlords, no real need for wars or conquests, not even when packs became enemies. So there was more of an internal focus, when it came to packs, rather than the external reach of the Dothraki.
Bonds could be forged, and the pack, the family, could grow through that rather than the growing armies in the South.
Raising his eyebrows down at Stiles as he looks up at him, Derek snorts softly and tilts his head, rubbing his cheek against his hair. ]
I didn't laugh at you. Deaton did, though.
no subject
[ Stiles is starting to think--at least lately--that the idea of an engagement, of marriage, isn't so bad. There's a lot about Derek that he's grown to learn since he first got here--he got up early in the mornings, he told the faolan stories and loves them more than life itself, that he's gruff but not necessarily unfunny, that he snores and tends to curl up around Stiles when he sleeps.
He'd grown to trust Derek with his life instead of fearing it. Grown fine with learning his ways, training with him, rolling around in the grass, playing with the faolan, sharing stories around the great bonfire. He was impossibly brave and smart, the kind of hero that Stiles always sort of wanted to be. (The kind of son he'd wanted to be for his dad.)
He drops his head a little to allow Derek to do so, mouth turning up in a smile where he can't see--absently, his hands come around to cover Derek's. ]
Ooof course he did. Great. Like my reputation around her isn't bad enough.
no subject
But the teasing has been common between them, these days. Not when they've spent some time with each other, where they've learned about one another over that time. The same as Stiles has learned about him, Derek has learned about Stiles. How he hates mornings but can be bribed out of bed in a variety of ways, though he talked and snored and drooled in his sleep-- and if the faoladh didn't wrap himself around him, he would roll right out of the furs and probably freeze to death before he even realized it-- and nevermind how he used his quick wit in such unconventional ways.
Especially when it came to their conversations, either heated and loud or soft and quiet. As frustrated as he could be, he could never quite choose one over the other. Their heated moments brought out that damned spark that had fascinated him from the start, that had him bringing him back to his pack instead of leaving him in the wilds of the North.
And it was that spark that showed him that there was far more to Stiles Stilinski than he ever gave himself credit for.
The fact that Stiles lets him give such affectionate gestures now isn't lost on Derek, and he buries his nose in his hair once he's properly scented him. His fingers spread beneath Stiles', and he lets out a chuff of a laugh. ]
Your reputation isn't that bad.
no subject
[ Stiles rolls his eyes and leans backwards into Derek's arms, tilting his head back against his shoulder. It's comfortable and warm, and he's able to keep his arm away from anything that might hurt it a little more. He's gotten so used to Derek now that this is safe, like it had been when he was sick, like he'd been curled up in the furs with him all these nights. It's undeniable he's gone from terrified and frustrated about being here to actually enjoying it--feeling safer here than he had in a while.
There's something about this place--something in his blood that's just settled since he's arrived. Like something in his heart was running and running, and finally, finally, it was starting to get onto its target's tail.
He lolls a little away from him across his shoulder, showing his neck to the faoladh, and obviously on purpose, and a low snort escapes him. ] Yeah, tell that to the rest of the pack.
no subject
[ Making sure that Stiles is comfortable, and his arm isn't at risk of being bumped against anything, Derek sinks into his seat and lets himself relax further. Though Stiles is all limbs and lack of coordination, far from being a fighter, he feels safe. Anchored. Like he spent years lost in the dark, only for the moon to finally reach through the clouds to show him the way back home. (And all he can think of is that story, gold chasing silver over and over and over again, constellations spread across white.)
Though relaxed, almost at peace with everything, his body bristles a little as Stiles lolls his head away. But there's no aggression, no threat to the lupa as he bares himself.
Instead, he simply drags his nose down from his hair and behind the curve of his ear, following some unmarked path until he can brush his lips against pale skin, soft and barely there. ] I don't know what you're talking about, they like you.
no subject
[ There's no real vitriol behind it, though. He hums at the feeling of Derek's mouth, tiny and flustering, enough to make his chest constrict with butterflies--kind of a ridiculous sensation, but there's no better word for it, like he can barely breathe with the force of the affection he's starting to feel for the faoladh. That he's been feeling for a while. They have yet to do anything even remotely romantic, and it doesn't really matter; it made things feel natural instead of rushed, like the undeniable chemistry that'd been there from the first day evolved into something real.
It's sure as hell helped things along, anyway. He shakes his head minutely and snorts, grin turning up soft and affectionate, something private he'd never share with anyone else. ] There's a fine, fine line between "like" and "tolerate", oh wise Alpha. You of all people toe it better than anyone.
no subject
[ That is, of course, said against Stiles' neck, which negates any namecalling that he might partake in completely. It's sort of funny that they can sit like this, affection shared in banter and slow growth. A part of him wants to open his mouth to Stiles' skin, the wild instincts that thrum in his blood, so that he can leave a mark on the warm, pale neck beneath his mouth.
But he doesn't. Instead, he sits and enjoys the quiet of the moment, closing his eyes and letting himself smile. Even if Stiles can't see it, he knows he'll feel it.
And he doesn't care. Not when they've come to the point they have. ] Funny, I feel like you've perfected that yourself.