[ At least whatever awkwardness was there was (blessedly) ignored by Derek, who seemed to just let it roll off of him. Stiles isn't sure if that's because he had to or because he wanted to, but he's going to just hope it's the latter and assume it's the former, and he starts scrubbing himself clean instead, focusing on that. It gives him something to do with hands while he talks, and he glances over at Derek's chest for a minute.
Makes sense they didn't have armor that fit him--the guy was a warrior at his finest, and he doubted that they wanted him to win. ] I suppose you will be in for a treat, then. [ He makes a face. ] If you can call standing still for hours and having invasive servants up in your face a treat, but maybe that's just personal preference.
[ He does have armor--he's used it before. But as he started to grow into his gawky, awkward limbs, Stiles found it a lot easier to bury himself in the books than in the swords, and it helps him avoid arranged marriage for another year or two longer. Nobody wants a scholar--everyone wants the warrior. And sure, he wants to get married, wants to, you know, maybe have sex once or twice in his lifetime, but that's probably not happening unless he does that thing that's been on his mind the entire time back, and you know what, now would be a terrible time for those thoughts, so he abruptly speaks back up again. ] You will have free access to anything on the grounds while you are here, and free run of our territory, which stretches out into the olive groves beyond here and into the forest. I do not have any interest in collaring you, metaphorically speaking--I am not a Colosseum guard. Or an Argent.
[ It's largely the latter, although the former does linger a little at the back of his mind. Rather, Derek just decides to let it go. He has a feeling that it won't be very difficult to provoke Stiles into awkwardness, anyways, so he has plenty of opportunities in the future to tease him further. But he seems to also give as good as he gets, even if it has a different result when the wolf is the target. It's... nice, to banter with someone again. It makes him miss what he's lost, what he hasn't seen in years.
Sitting up a little more, he shifts to look down at himself, fingers tracing along old wounds and freshly healed ones. An amused sound leaves him at that, something close to a rumble that vibrates at the back of his throat and echos in his chest. ] It wasn't a treat eight years ago, I doubt it'll be a treat now.
[ Because getting fitted for his armor, for togas and tunics and every single thing imaginable because he had to be presentable as a representation of his mother, was never fun. Ever. Even when he was lighter hearted, had an easier burden and a more personable demeanor, he didn't like having people in his space that he didn't invite there himself.
He catches a quick and fleeting shift in scent, but it's there and gone before Stiles is rambling on again. Almost on impulse, his hand raises, and he brushes his fingertips over his throat with a frown. The idea of being collared was not one that set well with him, figurative or literal. ] You have my word that I'll not run off like a stray.
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Makes sense they didn't have armor that fit him--the guy was a warrior at his finest, and he doubted that they wanted him to win. ] I suppose you will be in for a treat, then. [ He makes a face. ] If you can call standing still for hours and having invasive servants up in your face a treat, but maybe that's just personal preference.
[ He does have armor--he's used it before. But as he started to grow into his gawky, awkward limbs, Stiles found it a lot easier to bury himself in the books than in the swords, and it helps him avoid arranged marriage for another year or two longer. Nobody wants a scholar--everyone wants the warrior. And sure, he wants to get married, wants to, you know, maybe have sex once or twice in his lifetime, but that's probably not happening unless he does that thing that's been on his mind the entire time back, and you know what, now would be a terrible time for those thoughts, so he abruptly speaks back up again. ] You will have free access to anything on the grounds while you are here, and free run of our territory, which stretches out into the olive groves beyond here and into the forest. I do not have any interest in collaring you, metaphorically speaking--I am not a Colosseum guard. Or an Argent.
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Sitting up a little more, he shifts to look down at himself, fingers tracing along old wounds and freshly healed ones. An amused sound leaves him at that, something close to a rumble that vibrates at the back of his throat and echos in his chest. ] It wasn't a treat eight years ago, I doubt it'll be a treat now.
[ Because getting fitted for his armor, for togas and tunics and every single thing imaginable because he had to be presentable as a representation of his mother, was never fun. Ever. Even when he was lighter hearted, had an easier burden and a more personable demeanor, he didn't like having people in his space that he didn't invite there himself.
He catches a quick and fleeting shift in scent, but it's there and gone before Stiles is rambling on again. Almost on impulse, his hand raises, and he brushes his fingertips over his throat with a frown. The idea of being collared was not one that set well with him, figurative or literal. ] You have my word that I'll not run off like a stray.
[ It's said dryly, but he means it. ]