Or: a seasonal-themed open post. Want to frolic in the spring flowers? Go to a warm, summery beach? Play in the autumn leaves? Have a snowball fight in the middle of winter? Lo and behold, here is the place to do it.
[ It usually doesn't get that cold in Beacon Hills-- they're far enough from the mountains that they usually avoid harsh winters-- but every now and then, the temperature drops and could very easily rival that of New York. Derek is used to it by now, even if he can count how many times it's snowed here badly on one hand in the past twenty years, and spent six years in New York. Some pretty harsh winters struck them when he and Laura were there, so this isn't much to him.
It is, however, much to Stiles. Who is the reason why the tall windows of the loft now have thick, insulating curtains over them, and the fact that his bed is now covered in two comforters and an assortment of blankets. All of which take his werewolf space heater far too much effort to weasel out of in the morning, but he suffers through it because otherwise his human would probably freeze to death.
For as much as he has a resistance to the cold, he's not exactly keen on being out of bed for long. Even a workout isn't on his mind as he heads into the kitchen, filling the food bowl on the floor (with a square of carpet set down on the hardwood, because his newfound stray complains about the cold as much as her namesake) and making coffee with the immediate thought of going back to the bed and letting the blanket monster burritoed into his bed leech heat off of him.
Which is a strange thought. A year ago, he'd let the county tear down his childhood home, what had been only ruins for the better part of a decade. Back then, he'd known there was something between him and the teenager that'd barreled straight into his life and found his way into the cracks of his defenses. But he'd never acted on it, because Derek Hale is nothing if not self-depreciating, and he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop now. He ruins everything he touches, and for as much as he'd fought to fix Stiles when his mind was falling to pieces, protect him however he could, he still fears breaking him now.
Drawn away from where he can just barely see Stiles' bedhead poking out of the nest of the bed, a small blotch of white and brown and black nestled amongst it, he fixes up two cups of coffee with a faintly amused snort leaving him. He's pretty sure the bundle of fur won't get out of bed to eat until Stiles does-- he really did pick the perfect name for her-- but he's not complaining, really. This is... this is good. Nice. Something he never thought he'd get to have again.
It feels like home.
Coming back to the bed, he sets the mugs down on the bedside table after he steps up and over it, picking through the layers of the nest until he can find the bottom and slide back in. If he wakes Stiles at all during this process, he doesn't necessarily feel guilty, considering he can make it up to him if he decides to whine at him any. ]
[ The fact that Stiles spends more time at the loft than he does at home is not lost on him. It's been a year since the day that he stood with Derek and held him at home until the walls of the Hale house came down, and since then, well...it just kind of felt like things took another leap forward. Stiles already spent a good chunk of his life in this room, researching and studying and fixing up werewolf wounds and god only knew what else, but their friendship had already bloomed into something like the plot where the house used to be, now covered in flowers and herbs and a garden that Stiles' own mother would be proud of. Now, he was here to argue playfully with Derek, to cook him dinner and vice versa, to sleep in his bed and watch movies and kiss him until he felt like he was making up for three or four years of lost time.
The cold front that came into Beacon Hills was said to be one of the worst in years--Stiles' dad was out of town with Melissa, meaning he was here and Scott was off at Kira's. The weeklong sleepover has basically contended with Stiles "moving in"--his laundry invades Derek's machine, his shoes are waiting in the doorway, his school books spread all over the kitchen table. Stiles basically lives with Derek, because let's be real, he's got a feeling that this whole "love laser focus" thing he's got going on means that he and Derek are probably in this for the long haul.
Currently, he's under probably seven blankets (that Stiles bought, because Derek is a weirdo and just had his black sheets and a thin comforter--there are now two quilts from the Stilinski house, a batman throw, and a thick feather down comforter to add to it) with just his head and his nose sticking out, half awake since Derek got up. The cat that he'd picked up on a rainy day a couple weeks ago is curled in a ball near his near his head and he's vaguely aware of the smell of coffee drifting through the room. By the time Stiles stirs enough to actually be responsive--he's spent a lot of time catching up on street for the years that he lost it as a teenager--the warmth returns and a lazy smile cross his face as he unfolds from his position under the nest of blankets, rolling over on his side, eyes still closed, and tucking himself into the open space Derek leaves him, cheek on his chest. ]
Mmmmcoffee. [ He doesn't even both opening his eyes. ]
[ In Derek's defense, he hasn't been able to rebuild any sort of blanket collection that should be utilized for pack nesting. He hasn't needed them until Stiles firmly inserted himself into his bedspace, curled up in his side or against his chest or completely overtaking it with books for homework and research alike. It's as if Stiles is taking advantage of his regained ability to actually read things, and also of the open space that no one's going to barge in on.
Except him, anyways, but it is his bed. And it's not as if he doesn't bring him things to distract him, break that hyperfocus and bring him back to the real world with food or the press of kisses. It's never going to be enough, in exchange for what Stiles has done for him, what he continues to do for him, but it's something. Especially in the long run, where he hopes that the other shoe never drops, where Stiles doesn't realize that there's someone better out there for him.
Getting resettled in the nest that Stiles has built up, he regards the clothes scattered all across the floor absently, thinking of the laundry he's going to have to do that doesn't involve Stiles turning all of his whites pink (again). The fact that Stiles' clothes fill up half of his closet doesn't shock him, but every now and then he's pleasantly surprised by it still. The same as he's pleasantly surprised to find a sudden influx of junk food in his pantry, toothbrush and bodywash and an extra towel always in his bathroom.
But he's so far from complaining, and just lets a smile curl across his expression as Stiles rolls over into him. The kitten barely stirs, save for sliding down the pillow she's settled herself onto, half-disappeared beneath the errant blankets everywhere. Tilting his head to nose into Stiles' unruly hair, Derek chuffs softly at the very intelligible greeting that he gets. ]
Mmrmrgrghh. [ Stiles does lift his head off of the pillow enough to shoot him a dry look, because come on, Derek, only freaks are morning people. Bleary eyed blinking at the expanse of chest in front of him, he tilts his head up into his chin, getting comfortable in the spot he'd pretty much carved out for himself for the past year.
No actual words come out of his mouth--it's cold and it's morning--and Stiles just makes a pathetic grabby hand under the blanket for the cup of coffee. It's freezing out there and the last thing he wants to do is remove himself from this nest of heat, so when he realizes he probably can't grab the coffee and stay warm at the same time, Stiles drops his head again, muffling his voice into Derek's chest. ] 'time ssit?
[ He's literally never leaving this bed. Ever. The cat can even share, because he's feeling generous. Pants would probably help this whole frozen solid thing, but he goes for tangling his legs with Derek's instead, more or less turning into his personal human octopus. ]
[ Derek can't help the amusement that he gives Stiles in response to the dry look, shifting so that he can wrap his arm around his middle and set his hand against his hip, head tilted to be able to look at him easily. He doesn't bother giving him his coffee right now, considering the fact that he's laying down and he's not exactly keen on having scalding hot liquid everywhere in his bed and all over their nest. Instead, his free hand seeks out the reaching one, fingers spread so he can weave them through Stiles' comfortably. ]
Past noon, if that's any consolation. [ Normally he doesn't sleep in, but his bed is warm and the loft is cool, and Stiles is comfortable. He probably could've gotten pants for them to wear from the drawers, or the floor, but he was more interested in getting back into bed and bringing his bedmate something to wake and warm him.
A soft snort leaves him when Stiles tangles his legs with his, and he doesn't even complain. Just tips his head down, kissing the top of his head. ]
He and Allison were together for a long time (by high school standards), went out on dates and spent so much of their time together. But he's still jittering, and it makes him feel like he's bumbling around all over again. At least he's still got his feet on the ground, even if he's pretty close to letting his nerves and excitement overtake him. This is a date. This is an actual date, and he has no idea what to do with it.
Where Allison had been a one-two hit that left him down for the count, Kira had been a tentative lovetap (Stiles' description), despite the fact they both had that same feeling beneath them. He'd just been recovering from the fact that Allison had found something with Isaac, was seemingly moving on from him and onto their friend and packmate, and he was trying to be okay with it when Kira came into their lives.
But he's hopelessly endeared by her-- the curls of her dark hair, the brightness of her eyes, the way she hides behind her hair when she starts to flush, and wow it spreads over the apples of her cheeks in the most ridiculous way-- and he's actually talked to her and gotten to know her. It's really just been a downhill spiral after that.
So, after a manly pep talk with Stiles that could be summarized with "go get her, tiger" and whining to his mom for a good twenty minutes before leaving, Scott parks his bike outside the shop they said they'd meet at, dismounting and setting his helmet down so he can strap it in place. He hopes he's not late-- hopes he's not super early, either, left to worry-- and swallows down his nerves to put on a smile.
Right, he can do this. ]
Edited (round 2 of IF I KEYWORD U I WANT U TO STICK, ICON.) 2014-01-17 21:36 (UTC)
[ it's frigid cold, and the dead of winter when stiles drags himself in through doctor derek hale's door.
it's not like it's the first time, nor will it be the last, but there's always been one place he could go for help. stiles hadn't ever exactly "gotten along" with derek--the two of them fought whenever stiles was more or less dragged in to get healed or to take away some of his pain. as a kitsune, he doesn't die. he doesn't often get hurt. he really doesn't often get sick. but as a kitsune, he is often a target of hunters, or poachers, or nigh anyone interested in the supernatural. stiles would not make a good exhibit at a zoo, so he fights back, pulls playful tricks on people and skirts away before he can get caught.
but sometimes he gets caught.
sometimes he gets caught in ways that leave him bleeding on the ground, protecting his tails (four, now) and sending out shockwaves in the ground to force the hunters back long enough for him to try and transport away. he appears less than a mile from derek hale's house.
he and derek had gotten into a particularly nasty argument...stiles almost wanted to say it was four or five years ago, when derek was learning a trade given to him through a hallowed family line. it was long after derek had lost his family, and he was watching him stumble through learning the healing arts, and they'd gotten into an argument about it. stiles...stiles liked derek. he was the most maddening, irritating creature on the planet, and helped stiles when he was poisoned, and very nearly lost his own life in the process, gathering the wolfsbane to get it out of stiles' system. he was a moron.
so his own pride had kept him away for a little while. kitsune are fickle creatures, after all.
but in the panic, in the shock that he thinks he might die, where he's tenderly cradling the little red bag holding his tails, he can't think of anyone else to pull the arrows out of him, to clean the gaping wound in his back. because derek--derek will keep him safe. derek, for every assholish thing he's said, has always, always kept him safe.
stiles just has to make it there, first. so he starts the walk, slow and painful and dripping blood, in hopes that maybe derek'll catch his scent on the wind. ]
[ Ever since he started to learn the trade, Derek's treated all manner of supernatural creatures. Some prefer his help over those that are human, the druids and mortal men and women that take up the trade and have for generations upon generations. But after his pack's demise, at what was essentially his hands, he's sought to find something to... not quite make up for it, because nothing will make up for the deaths that he caused, but he looks for something to help those around him. So that they might not go through the things that he does.
It was difficult, for a while. Faoladh are meant to be protectors, but rarely are they healers. He's met quite a few uncooperative or disbelieving individuals over the years, both because the supernatural are often prideful but also because they can't believe that a predator like a wolf would seek to heal. They don't seem to remember the old days, back when wolves were proud, they hunted, but they protected those that needed the protection. This was long before many slipped away from that for their own gain, when different wolves began to mingle.
But Derek is a faoladh, and will always be a faoladh. So he tries to give sanctuary, rebuilds the lost Hale home over time, and tries to use his hands for healing instead of destruction.
One particular individual he's met has been a trial on his patience. The fox is maddening for all of his three hundred years, and some days he wonders how he could have survived to get from one tail to four. Stiles has a quick wit and a faster mouth, and often finds himself getting into trouble. But the problem is that he's also prideful, and stubborn, almost as stubborn as Derek. The last time they saw one another he'd been angry about needing help, and they'd fought all while he'd healed him, taken his pain to the point that it was dizzying, but he'll stand by what he said. The risk had been worth ensuring the fox's survival.
His grandmother always said there were two kinds of foxes: ones that can run with wolves, and ones that should be run from. Stiles is infuriating, but he's not the latter. For all his frustrations, he's fond of the stupid kitsune.
So he worries when he's away, god knows where. And it takes only the smallest, crisp winter wind for him to catch a scent full of copper and iron and something savory-sweet-- blood. His hackles practically rise as he turns away from where he's dusting snow off of winter herbs, things people would think just for the kitchen and hardly bat an eye at someone having in a side garden. Head snapping around, he drops everything in his hands as he breathes in through both nose and mouth, testing the air and trying to find which way to go.
And just like that, Derek rushes off, following the scent of blood and fox and magic, until he spots the bloody figure. It makes his heart seize in his chest. ] Stiles-- Stiles!
[ stiles honestly doesn't think he's going to make it far enough. he really doesn't want to die in the middle of a blizzard, poisoned and bleeding out, because he can feel energy slipping out of one of the cracks in the wooden objects he uses for tails; the intricate carvings in the wood are starting to weaken, after very, very nearly being busted by the hunter. the poacher, really.
ugh. stiles cannot believe he's going to die because of a freakin poacher. him and his big mouth.
he manages to stumble forward a couple more steps before his knees hit the ground, and he drops onto all fours to hack up blood and something gross and black, and when he looks up, blurry vision spots a figure in the distance. something in stiles just relaxes and his instincts scream "safe", because derek'll take him home. he'll save his life.
he doesn't manage a wave or anything, but he coughs and wobbles and tries to force himself up to his feet, arrows and all, holding on as tightly as possible to a half broken wooden favor he calls a tail. ] Hope you--take walk ins.
[ it's a stupid, sarcastic crack, but it's stiles, and he tries to push himself up to his feet. but for once, stiles knows: he's not fine. normally, he'll walk it off, but he's not fine at all. ]
[ The fact that Stiles can still make wisecracks should soothe Derek, but it doesn't. Not in the least. The fox looks, smells, awful, like his body is rejecting itself and whatever is in it. As he comes closer, he reaches out to stop Stiles from trying to get to his feet, kneeling down and looking him over quickly. He can see the arrows, but there's nothing he can do about them while they're outside-- that would be stupid-- and instead of trying to do anything with them, he reaches his hand up and presses it to Stiles' neck. His thumb smooths a little along his jawline, and it takes all of a second for him to start taking his pain.
It's a lot. It's a lot, and for a split second he's actually fucking terrified for his stupid kitsune. ]
I'll make an exception just this once. [ His own joke is weak, but he lowers his other hand down to gently touch Stiles' own hands. He doesn't say anything, but it's a tentative question: will Stiles entrust his damaged tail to him?
Already his mind is racing on what he needs to do, what he needs to ensure that Stiles survives through the night. It's freezing out and he can tell that his body temperature is dropping with his blood loss, whatever poison is in his system, and he eyes the arrows before they go back to his face. He can't even help it, he brushes his thumb over his cheek as he tries to ignore the dizzying sensation of his pain settling into his own veins.
Once he's sure Stiles survives, he's going to find whoever did this to him and shove their own arrows down their throat. ]
[ derek barely brushes against him and the pain sapping happens, a quick shock that stiles was trying to prevent. truth of the matter is, it hurts so bad stiles is starting to get dizzy; he feels vaguely like he's going to pass out, especially now that his instincts are telling him that things are going to be okay.
he doesn't even need to hesitate; he opens his palms and hands the token to him. it nearly falls apart at the contact, held together by a single resilient thread of wood grain or magic or something, and stiles shudders when he passes it over. he doesn't think he's going to make it through the night, and if he'd trust anybody in the world with his tails, it'd be derek.
(a part of him wonders if they'll disappear if he dies. he hopes not--the little wooden chess pieces were given to him by his mother, hundreds of years ago. it's all stiles has left of her.)
his head tilts listlessly into the thumb on his cheek, and he nods, passing him a weak, slightly bloodied smirk. or, it tries to be a smirk, but ends up closer to a watery smile instead, because he's so, so scared. he doesn't want to die. ] Kay.
[ Working his jaw in an effort to not grit his teeth against the pain, Derek gently takes the chess piece from Stiles as he gives it to him. He handles it like it's spun sugar, which it might as well be with how damaged it is. He can only imagine what his tail physically looks like when Stiles is a fox, and he honestly is sort of glad that he doesn't have to look at the damage that way. ]
We're going to move now, okay? [ He smiles back at him, ignoring the way his heart clenches in his chest in response to Stiles' expression. He absolutely refuses to let him die, and he eases forward carefully. With the arrows in his back, he can't quite carry Stiles bridal, at the risk of provoking the injuries left there.
So, instead, he moves to wrap an arm underneath Stiles, cheek brushing against his temple as he hefts him up to perch on his forearm. It lets him slump into his chest, and it means Derek doesn't have to touch the arrows until he's gotten him laying down.
In his other hand, he holds the token close, protecting it and wishing with every fiber of his being that just holding it will keep it together, will maybe help fix it as he moves back to the house quickly. ]
[ New Years with the eponymous Gladers is... well. It's something. With most of them legal drinking age and willing enough to get alcohol for everyone else, it's just asking for trouble. They should, probably, set a limit on drinks because Newt was going to kill all of them when he had to clean up puke in random pots and replace a chair again. (The first one was all Winston, okay. The second one was mostly Gally's fault it wasn't his idea to get tackled like that.)
But Minho is under the impression that things wouldn't be quite as interesting if they limited drink intake, so he doesn't suggest it. At least this time they're at a bar and not someone's apartment, a stipulation brought on by Newt and Alby. No one argued, because that meant they wouldn't have to make their own drinks, and they wouldn't have to bring any. It cuts out a few people, but not enough to make anyone feel too bad.
He sure doesn't feel bad about it, mostly because boozing up people (read as: Tommy) is one of the funnest things in the world. He has to duck past a group of people milling at the bartop, but he just trots right up the stairs to the second level where most of his friends have decided to mill around. There's a clear view of the outside world, snow falling in big, fat flakes, and he regards it thoughtfully before he goes off to drop off various glasses and bottles of booze before he arrives at his final destination.
Grin spreading across his face, squinting his eyes the slightest bit, he drops into his seat opposite Thomas with round... four, he thinks? Of shots. ]
So I definitely got an offer of doing body shots while I was getting refills. [ Although he didn't stick around to find out if they meant off of him or someone else, but whatever he was more interested in getting back to Thomas with their drinks. ]
[ The concept of letting loose is somewhat lost on Thomas - he's a reasonable guy, he likes fun, but it's not necessarily what he's good at. He's better with being the leader, being in control, being the responsible one to be relied on. Still, even marble statues need a rest sometimes, and while Tommy puts up his annual fight about partying on New Years - inevitably, he loses. Not that he minds, not at all actually because --
Well. If being tipsy, if being drunk with his best friends isn't the most fun he has all year, then he's a straight up liar. It also excuses some strange behavior, he guesses, and if he lets himself grab a hold of Minho's arm occasionally, or let his gaze linger on him for longer than usual, then. Well. He's not complaining.
Not even a bit, because while he'd usually ignore the voice in the back of his head - the one that says slow down champ, you're just friends - the influence of alcohol manages to dull it down. It isn't a bad voice - it's smooth and sultry, it talks about how soft Minho's lips probably are, how nice his arms might feel wrapped around Tommy's waist. It's not a bad thought at all. ]
Yeah? [ Tommy hums thoughtfully, spinning his finger around the rim of his shot glass, eyeing it tentatively. ] Why didn't you join 'em?
Well, other than the fact that I reserve body shots for special occasions that largely involve getting you to let loose... [ Humming a little as he grins, surveying the shots and recalling which is which as the bartender indicated, Minho cracks his knuckles almost idly while he considers his answer. If they'd been taking body shots off him, he would rather not have a bunch of weird mouths on him when he's more interested in one in particular. (Stupid, stupid pretty mouth.) If they'd been taking shots off someone else, that's a strange body he'd rather not be putting his mouth on. (Also one with about a thousand less spots than the one he would put his mouth on.) So. ]
Couldn't leave you all by your lonesome over here where you'd get preyed upon and forced to drink strange things by the rest of these shuckers. [ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at their friends cheerfully, only a little sarcastic about it. Besides, he's got his best friend here and looking all warm and happy and really, for as reserved as the guy is in comparison to some of them, it's good to see him when they can get him really openly smiling. Between that and the fact Tommy is idly handsy when tipsy, he's sort of enjoying the night himself.
Minho points at the glass that Thomas is eying up, cheerfully proclaiming: ] That would be a cowboy cocksucker.
i want to be gross with some coke and some cake, please.
[ There are still moments where Shea has to stop and stare at what his life has become. He doesn't believe in some greater plan, or fate, but sometimes he does believe that things happen for a reason. Whatever this is, it happened for a reason that he's still questioning. Maybe he'll find an answer eventually, but right now he's doing the whole stop and stare thing.
That entails actually staring at the door across from him, listening to the world around them. It's gotten cold in the city, as it always does in the midst of winter, and the cheap room that they'd managed to acquire for the night - maybe the week, depending on what they can put together - has shitty heating. He can hear the wind sneaking through a crack somewhere up near the ceiling, the windows rattle every time a strong gust blows by, and the ancient heater hums and clanks where it struggles to do its job.
What's really got his attention, though, is the shudder that's just at his back. Cheap rooms mean limited space, and Shea really doesn't care about the fact Alex dislikes sharing his things. At least he's gotten better about it, or at least just sucked it up when he realized that Shea wasn't going to sleep on the floor or suffer through whatever other horrible furniture there are in the places that they land.
But it also means that Shea is acutely aware of the fact that the temperature is probably close to freezing, which isn't a problem for him so much but is obviously a problem for the companion that he didn't ask for but wound up keeping anyways. The former scion is a buck twenty when soaking wet, he doesn't really have much meat to him to help keep him warm in the frigid air.
Exhaling slowly, he works his jaw before rolling over to face Alex's back. Rather than hesitating, he just reaches out and secures his arm around his middle so that he can pull him in, molding to the shape of his body without a word. ]
[ alexander hates the cold. he's hated it all of his life. this is a fact, because when you're maybe a hundred and twenty pounds of skin and bone, the cold cuts to you, gets into your blood and sinks into your bones until you're trembling and shaking so hard your teeth feel like they're going to rattle out of your mouth. back in the castle, he never had to worry about the cold--beyond heat, there were great, massive fireplaces, electric blankets, anything you could ask for.
but since he'd escaped with his life, cold was starting to become his every day reality.
why couldn't his family have been deposed in summer, he thinks, nestled up in a coat he charmed off of a man who was (also) probably homeless in their last little town. it's threadbare and smells terrible but he's starting to learn to work with what he's got, although alex drew the line at wearing it to bed. so now, with just a thin blanket covering him and shea at his back, he shivers, determined A) not to ask for help but also B) not to fall asleep. if he passes out, maybe he'll die, and alex has come too damn far in his life since this whole thing started to die in a shitty motel room.
his teeth are chattering when he feels shea shift on the bed, and alex opens his mouth to comment, to fake a snore, anything, but then he tips over and drapes himself over alex's waist. for a guy with that much muscle and that much hair, who moonlights (ha) as a wolf, he's an absolute furnace and alex isn't surprised; the warmth seeps into his back and over his waist, immediately, and he has to resist the urge to curl up into it, or to maybe turn around and bury his face in his chest.
he's not going to do that. instead, alex mutters- ] We're not speaking about this. [ and determinedly shuts his eyes.
except, knowing alex, he won't be able to shut up about it in about ten minutes, but he'll try. ]
Then shut up and go to sleep. [ His words come off more amused than having any bite, but Shea goes quiet afterwards to listen to his own advice. It's easier to focus on the quiet than it is anything else, to be honest, because Alex is suddenly filling up all of his senses now. He's become so incredibly familiar with his scent and the sound of his heartbeat that at first, it doesn't matter, because they've worn off on one another with their constant proximity.
But this is different entirely. There's a heartbeat thrumming against his own, and it would be easier than anything for him to tip forward and tuck his nose against the soft down of hair at the back of Alex's head. The longer that they remain curled together, the more aware of everything he becomes.
Closing his eyes, he tells himself to just stay still. Unfortunately, there's that sudden awareness that comes with proximity, and Shea realizes far too late that his hand has settled against Alex's him in the act of curling his arm around him.
If it didn't draw attention, he'd probably move it away. But it would draw even more attention to it, and his awareness of it, and this is strange enough as it is.
So he just nestles his other arm underneath his head, because it's more effective than the shitty pillow he just threw at Alex so he'd have two. Why did they have to run into one another in time for the winter chill to set in? Why did they have to run into one another at all?
[ if alex was the type to--no, he's totally the type to stick his tongue out. it's only because he knows shea can't see him, and he rolls his eyes and fidgets a little, trying to get comfortable. the bed was small enough beforehand, but now it feels tiny, and every single part of his body that's touching shea's feels like it's being shocked. there's a traitorously warm feeling that's starting to leak into his chest and down into his gut, and alex knows what that is, and he just--he refuses. shea saved his life, yeah, but not five minutes later he threatened him within an inch of it. the two of them have been in constant arguments the entire trip, probably driving quinn and bean crazy (definitely driving bean crazy, considering she barks at alex, although she barks all the time and he's not really sure what that means for him) but.
maybe the big guy's growing on him. a tiny, tiny bit, now that he's not trying to kill him.
when he sits up a little to fluff his pillows and drop onto them with a thump, he doesn't move out from the arm around his waist. it's comfortable and warm and alex doesn't want to freeze to death. that's the real, only reason behind this, and he shuts his eyes with a huff, trying to fall asleep. everything feels louder, amplified, and he's finding very, very quickly that this is going to be impossible.
eventually, he mutters-- ] Stupid fucking cold. [ which is a sign that no, he's probably not going to be sleeping any time soon. ]
[ Eyes opening again as Alex starts to move around, Shea watches him easily in the dark of the room while he works his pillows into submission. Thinking about it, he's pretty sure the girls got the better room, but he doesn't have much complaint about it. When you live your life in a cage - metaphorical or otherwise - it's easy to enjoy when there are even some minor creature comforts. Despite the fact he has to share with the son of the people that put him in that cage in the first place, it's...
Not as bad as it used to be.
Which he's never going to admit aloud, if he can help it, because this wasn't supposed to happen. This was never supposed to be. Shea wouldn't have killed him - because even years and years away from his birth pack, with years and years of torment and brutality, couldn't destroy the natural instinct to protect those like Alex - but he should have just left him there.
Instead, here they are now. And he curls easily at his back once he's settled down on the bed again, easy despite how much he wants to resist that ease. Besides, it means that he's not going to freeze to death. He's pretty sure that Alex will appreciate that above all else, even if it means sacrificing dignity or whatever. Like the brat has much of it left, after everything that's happened, but it's besides the point. ]
Welcome to the less luxurious side of the world. [ Voice quiet, he snuffles a little, shifting his shoulders to get comfortable. ] If it were summer, we'd probably be roasting alive.
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It turned into suburbia pre-house.
It is, however, much to Stiles. Who is the reason why the tall windows of the loft now have thick, insulating curtains over them, and the fact that his bed is now covered in two comforters and an assortment of blankets. All of which take his werewolf space heater far too much effort to weasel out of in the morning, but he suffers through it because otherwise his human would probably freeze to death.
For as much as he has a resistance to the cold, he's not exactly keen on being out of bed for long. Even a workout isn't on his mind as he heads into the kitchen, filling the food bowl on the floor (with a square of carpet set down on the hardwood, because his newfound stray complains about the cold as much as her namesake) and making coffee with the immediate thought of going back to the bed and letting the blanket monster burritoed into his bed leech heat off of him.
Which is a strange thought. A year ago, he'd let the county tear down his childhood home, what had been only ruins for the better part of a decade. Back then, he'd known there was something between him and the teenager that'd barreled straight into his life and found his way into the cracks of his defenses. But he'd never acted on it, because Derek Hale is nothing if not self-depreciating, and he's still waiting for the other shoe to drop now. He ruins everything he touches, and for as much as he'd fought to fix Stiles when his mind was falling to pieces, protect him however he could, he still fears breaking him now.
Drawn away from where he can just barely see Stiles' bedhead poking out of the nest of the bed, a small blotch of white and brown and black nestled amongst it, he fixes up two cups of coffee with a faintly amused snort leaving him. He's pretty sure the bundle of fur won't get out of bed to eat until Stiles does-- he really did pick the perfect name for her-- but he's not complaining, really. This is... this is good. Nice. Something he never thought he'd get to have again.
It feels like home.
Coming back to the bed, he sets the mugs down on the bedside table after he steps up and over it, picking through the layers of the nest until he can find the bottom and slide back in. If he wakes Stiles at all during this process, he doesn't necessarily feel guilty, considering he can make it up to him if he decides to whine at him any. ]
gurgles
The cold front that came into Beacon Hills was said to be one of the worst in years--Stiles' dad was out of town with Melissa, meaning he was here and Scott was off at Kira's. The weeklong sleepover has basically contended with Stiles "moving in"--his laundry invades Derek's machine, his shoes are waiting in the doorway, his school books spread all over the kitchen table. Stiles basically lives with Derek, because let's be real, he's got a feeling that this whole "love laser focus" thing he's got going on means that he and Derek are probably in this for the long haul.
Currently, he's under probably seven blankets (that Stiles bought, because Derek is a weirdo and just had his black sheets and a thin comforter--there are now two quilts from the Stilinski house, a batman throw, and a thick feather down comforter to add to it) with just his head and his nose sticking out, half awake since Derek got up. The cat that he'd picked up on a rainy day a couple weeks ago is curled in a ball near his near his head and he's vaguely aware of the smell of coffee drifting through the room. By the time Stiles stirs enough to actually be responsive--he's spent a lot of time catching up on street for the years that he lost it as a teenager--the warmth returns and a lazy smile cross his face as he unfolds from his position under the nest of blankets, rolling over on his side, eyes still closed, and tucking himself into the open space Derek leaves him, cheek on his chest. ]
Mmmmcoffee. [ He doesn't even both opening his eyes. ]
ugh kill me.
Except him, anyways, but it is his bed. And it's not as if he doesn't bring him things to distract him, break that hyperfocus and bring him back to the real world with food or the press of kisses. It's never going to be enough, in exchange for what Stiles has done for him, what he continues to do for him, but it's something. Especially in the long run, where he hopes that the other shoe never drops, where Stiles doesn't realize that there's someone better out there for him.
Getting resettled in the nest that Stiles has built up, he regards the clothes scattered all across the floor absently, thinking of the laundry he's going to have to do that doesn't involve Stiles turning all of his whites pink (again). The fact that Stiles' clothes fill up half of his closet doesn't shock him, but every now and then he's pleasantly surprised by it still. The same as he's pleasantly surprised to find a sudden influx of junk food in his pantry, toothbrush and bodywash and an extra towel always in his bathroom.
But he's so far from complaining, and just lets a smile curl across his expression as Stiles rolls over into him. The kitten barely stirs, save for sliding down the pillow she's settled herself onto, half-disappeared beneath the errant blankets everywhere. Tilting his head to nose into Stiles' unruly hair, Derek chuffs softly at the very intelligible greeting that he gets. ]
Ah, it speaks.
My babies.
No actual words come out of his mouth--it's cold and it's morning--and Stiles just makes a pathetic grabby hand under the blanket for the cup of coffee. It's freezing out there and the last thing he wants to do is remove himself from this nest of heat, so when he realizes he probably can't grab the coffee and stay warm at the same time, Stiles drops his head again, muffling his voice into Derek's chest. ] 'time ssit?
[ He's literally never leaving this bed. Ever. The cat can even share, because he's feeling generous. Pants would probably help this whole frozen solid thing, but he goes for tangling his legs with Derek's instead, more or less turning into his personal human octopus. ]
Sweet dumb baby.
Past noon, if that's any consolation. [ Normally he doesn't sleep in, but his bed is warm and the loft is cool, and Stiles is comfortable. He probably could've gotten pants for them to wear from the drawers, or the floor, but he was more interested in getting back into bed and bringing his bedmate something to wake and warm him.
A soft snort leaves him when Stiles tangles his legs with his, and he doesn't even complain. Just tips his head down, kissing the top of his head. ]
how morning
How consciousness.
idk man
idk either
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1/3
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hi uwu*
O u O*
He and Allison were together for a long time (by high school standards), went out on dates and spent so much of their time together. But he's still jittering, and it makes him feel like he's bumbling around all over again. At least he's still got his feet on the ground, even if he's pretty close to letting his nerves and excitement overtake him. This is a date. This is an actual date, and he has no idea what to do with it.
Where Allison had been a one-two hit that left him down for the count, Kira had been a tentative lovetap (Stiles' description), despite the fact they both had that same feeling beneath them. He'd just been recovering from the fact that Allison had found something with Isaac, was seemingly moving on from him and onto their friend and packmate, and he was trying to be okay with it when Kira came into their lives.
But he's hopelessly endeared by her-- the curls of her dark hair, the brightness of her eyes, the way she hides behind her hair when she starts to flush, and wow it spreads over the apples of her cheeks in the most ridiculous way-- and he's actually talked to her and gotten to know her. It's really just been a downhill spiral after that.
So, after a manly pep talk with Stiles that could be summarized with "go get her, tiger" and whining to his mom for a good twenty minutes before leaving, Scott parks his bike outside the shop they said they'd meet at, dismounting and setting his helmet down so he can strap it in place. He hopes he's not late-- hopes he's not super early, either, left to worry-- and swallows down his nerves to put on a smile.
Right, he can do this. ]
what if i tag you from that AU we talked about.
it's not like it's the first time, nor will it be the last, but there's always been one place he could go for help. stiles hadn't ever exactly "gotten along" with derek--the two of them fought whenever stiles was more or less dragged in to get healed or to take away some of his pain. as a kitsune, he doesn't die. he doesn't often get hurt. he really doesn't often get sick. but as a kitsune, he is often a target of hunters, or poachers, or nigh anyone interested in the supernatural. stiles would not make a good exhibit at a zoo, so he fights back, pulls playful tricks on people and skirts away before he can get caught.
but sometimes he gets caught.
sometimes he gets caught in ways that leave him bleeding on the ground, protecting his tails (four, now) and sending out shockwaves in the ground to force the hunters back long enough for him to try and transport away. he appears less than a mile from derek hale's house.
he and derek had gotten into a particularly nasty argument...stiles almost wanted to say it was four or five years ago, when derek was learning a trade given to him through a hallowed family line. it was long after derek had lost his family, and he was watching him stumble through learning the healing arts, and they'd gotten into an argument about it. stiles...stiles liked derek. he was the most maddening, irritating creature on the planet, and helped stiles when he was poisoned, and very nearly lost his own life in the process, gathering the wolfsbane to get it out of stiles' system. he was a moron.
so his own pride had kept him away for a little while. kitsune are fickle creatures, after all.
but in the panic, in the shock that he thinks he might die, where he's tenderly cradling the little red bag holding his tails, he can't think of anyone else to pull the arrows out of him, to clean the gaping wound in his back. because derek--derek will keep him safe. derek, for every assholish thing he's said, has always, always kept him safe.
stiles just has to make it there, first. so he starts the walk, slow and painful and dripping blood, in hopes that maybe derek'll catch his scent on the wind. ]
oh noo.
It was difficult, for a while. Faoladh are meant to be protectors, but rarely are they healers. He's met quite a few uncooperative or disbelieving individuals over the years, both because the supernatural are often prideful but also because they can't believe that a predator like a wolf would seek to heal. They don't seem to remember the old days, back when wolves were proud, they hunted, but they protected those that needed the protection. This was long before many slipped away from that for their own gain, when different wolves began to mingle.
But Derek is a faoladh, and will always be a faoladh. So he tries to give sanctuary, rebuilds the lost Hale home over time, and tries to use his hands for healing instead of destruction.
One particular individual he's met has been a trial on his patience. The fox is maddening for all of his three hundred years, and some days he wonders how he could have survived to get from one tail to four. Stiles has a quick wit and a faster mouth, and often finds himself getting into trouble. But the problem is that he's also prideful, and stubborn, almost as stubborn as Derek. The last time they saw one another he'd been angry about needing help, and they'd fought all while he'd healed him, taken his pain to the point that it was dizzying, but he'll stand by what he said. The risk had been worth ensuring the fox's survival.
His grandmother always said there were two kinds of foxes: ones that can run with wolves, and ones that should be run from. Stiles is infuriating, but he's not the latter. For all his frustrations, he's fond of the stupid kitsune.
So he worries when he's away, god knows where. And it takes only the smallest, crisp winter wind for him to catch a scent full of copper and iron and something savory-sweet-- blood. His hackles practically rise as he turns away from where he's dusting snow off of winter herbs, things people would think just for the kitchen and hardly bat an eye at someone having in a side garden. Head snapping around, he drops everything in his hands as he breathes in through both nose and mouth, testing the air and trying to find which way to go.
And just like that, Derek rushes off, following the scent of blood and fox and magic, until he spots the bloody figure. It makes his heart seize in his chest. ] Stiles-- Stiles!
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ugh. stiles cannot believe he's going to die because of a freakin poacher. him and his big mouth.
he manages to stumble forward a couple more steps before his knees hit the ground, and he drops onto all fours to hack up blood and something gross and black, and when he looks up, blurry vision spots a figure in the distance. something in stiles just relaxes and his instincts scream "safe", because derek'll take him home. he'll save his life.
he doesn't manage a wave or anything, but he coughs and wobbles and tries to force himself up to his feet, arrows and all, holding on as tightly as possible to a half broken wooden favor he calls a tail. ] Hope you--take walk ins.
[ it's a stupid, sarcastic crack, but it's stiles, and he tries to push himself up to his feet. but for once, stiles knows: he's not fine. normally, he'll walk it off, but he's not fine at all. ]
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It's a lot. It's a lot, and for a split second he's actually fucking terrified for his stupid kitsune. ]
I'll make an exception just this once. [ His own joke is weak, but he lowers his other hand down to gently touch Stiles' own hands. He doesn't say anything, but it's a tentative question: will Stiles entrust his damaged tail to him?
Already his mind is racing on what he needs to do, what he needs to ensure that Stiles survives through the night. It's freezing out and he can tell that his body temperature is dropping with his blood loss, whatever poison is in his system, and he eyes the arrows before they go back to his face. He can't even help it, he brushes his thumb over his cheek as he tries to ignore the dizzying sensation of his pain settling into his own veins.
Once he's sure Stiles survives, he's going to find whoever did this to him and shove their own arrows down their throat. ]
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he doesn't even need to hesitate; he opens his palms and hands the token to him. it nearly falls apart at the contact, held together by a single resilient thread of wood grain or magic or something, and stiles shudders when he passes it over. he doesn't think he's going to make it through the night, and if he'd trust anybody in the world with his tails, it'd be derek.
(a part of him wonders if they'll disappear if he dies. he hopes not--the little wooden chess pieces were given to him by his mother, hundreds of years ago. it's all stiles has left of her.)
his head tilts listlessly into the thumb on his cheek, and he nods, passing him a weak, slightly bloodied smirk. or, it tries to be a smirk, but ends up closer to a watery smile instead, because he's so, so scared. he doesn't want to die. ] Kay.
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We're going to move now, okay? [ He smiles back at him, ignoring the way his heart clenches in his chest in response to Stiles' expression. He absolutely refuses to let him die, and he eases forward carefully. With the arrows in his back, he can't quite carry Stiles bridal, at the risk of provoking the injuries left there.
So, instead, he moves to wrap an arm underneath Stiles, cheek brushing against his temple as he hefts him up to perch on his forearm. It lets him slump into his chest, and it means Derek doesn't have to touch the arrows until he's gotten him laying down.
In his other hand, he holds the token close, protecting it and wishing with every fiber of his being that just holding it will keep it together, will maybe help fix it as he moves back to the house quickly. ]
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pufferfish face
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But Minho is under the impression that things wouldn't be quite as interesting if they limited drink intake, so he doesn't suggest it. At least this time they're at a bar and not someone's apartment, a stipulation brought on by Newt and Alby. No one argued, because that meant they wouldn't have to make their own drinks, and they wouldn't have to bring any. It cuts out a few people, but not enough to make anyone feel too bad.
He sure doesn't feel bad about it, mostly because boozing up people (read as: Tommy) is one of the funnest things in the world. He has to duck past a group of people milling at the bartop, but he just trots right up the stairs to the second level where most of his friends have decided to mill around. There's a clear view of the outside world, snow falling in big, fat flakes, and he regards it thoughtfully before he goes off to drop off various glasses and bottles of booze before he arrives at his final destination.
Grin spreading across his face, squinting his eyes the slightest bit, he drops into his seat opposite Thomas with round... four, he thinks? Of shots. ]
So I definitely got an offer of doing body shots while I was getting refills. [ Although he didn't stick around to find out if they meant off of him or someone else, but whatever he was more interested in getting back to Thomas with their drinks. ]
kisses cheeks
Well. If being tipsy, if being drunk with his best friends isn't the most fun he has all year, then he's a straight up liar. It also excuses some strange behavior, he guesses, and if he lets himself grab a hold of Minho's arm occasionally, or let his gaze linger on him for longer than usual, then. Well. He's not complaining.
Not even a bit, because while he'd usually ignore the voice in the back of his head - the one that says slow down champ, you're just friends - the influence of alcohol manages to dull it down. It isn't a bad voice - it's smooth and sultry, it talks about how soft Minho's lips probably are, how nice his arms might feel wrapped around Tommy's waist. It's not a bad thought at all. ]
Yeah? [ Tommy hums thoughtfully, spinning his finger around the rim of his shot glass, eyeing it tentatively. ] Why didn't you join 'em?
puff puff
Couldn't leave you all by your lonesome over here where you'd get preyed upon and forced to drink strange things by the rest of these shuckers. [ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at their friends cheerfully, only a little sarcastic about it. Besides, he's got his best friend here and looking all warm and happy and really, for as reserved as the guy is in comparison to some of them, it's good to see him when they can get him really openly smiling. Between that and the fact Tommy is idly handsy when tipsy, he's sort of enjoying the night himself.
Minho points at the glass that Thomas is eying up, cheerfully proclaiming: ] That would be a cowboy cocksucker.
i want to be gross with some coke and some cake, please.
oo...ps....
oops, we gotta cuddle to stay warm.
no oops only yes
That entails actually staring at the door across from him, listening to the world around them. It's gotten cold in the city, as it always does in the midst of winter, and the cheap room that they'd managed to acquire for the night - maybe the week, depending on what they can put together - has shitty heating. He can hear the wind sneaking through a crack somewhere up near the ceiling, the windows rattle every time a strong gust blows by, and the ancient heater hums and clanks where it struggles to do its job.
What's really got his attention, though, is the shudder that's just at his back. Cheap rooms mean limited space, and Shea really doesn't care about the fact Alex dislikes sharing his things. At least he's gotten better about it, or at least just sucked it up when he realized that Shea wasn't going to sleep on the floor or suffer through whatever other horrible furniture there are in the places that they land.
But it also means that Shea is acutely aware of the fact that the temperature is probably close to freezing, which isn't a problem for him so much but is obviously a problem for the companion that he didn't ask for but wound up keeping anyways. The former scion is a buck twenty when soaking wet, he doesn't really have much meat to him to help keep him warm in the frigid air.
Exhaling slowly, he works his jaw before rolling over to face Alex's back. Rather than hesitating, he just reaches out and secures his arm around his middle so that he can pull him in, molding to the shape of his body without a word. ]
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but since he'd escaped with his life, cold was starting to become his every day reality.
why couldn't his family have been deposed in summer, he thinks, nestled up in a coat he charmed off of a man who was (also) probably homeless in their last little town. it's threadbare and smells terrible but he's starting to learn to work with what he's got, although alex drew the line at wearing it to bed. so now, with just a thin blanket covering him and shea at his back, he shivers, determined A) not to ask for help but also B) not to fall asleep. if he passes out, maybe he'll die, and alex has come too damn far in his life since this whole thing started to die in a shitty motel room.
his teeth are chattering when he feels shea shift on the bed, and alex opens his mouth to comment, to fake a snore, anything, but then he tips over and drapes himself over alex's waist. for a guy with that much muscle and that much hair, who moonlights (ha) as a wolf, he's an absolute furnace and alex isn't surprised; the warmth seeps into his back and over his waist, immediately, and he has to resist the urge to curl up into it, or to maybe turn around and bury his face in his chest.
he's not going to do that. instead, alex mutters- ] We're not speaking about this. [ and determinedly shuts his eyes.
except, knowing alex, he won't be able to shut up about it in about ten minutes, but he'll try. ]
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But this is different entirely. There's a heartbeat thrumming against his own, and it would be easier than anything for him to tip forward and tuck his nose against the soft down of hair at the back of Alex's head. The longer that they remain curled together, the more aware of everything he becomes.
Closing his eyes, he tells himself to just stay still. Unfortunately, there's that sudden awareness that comes with proximity, and Shea realizes far too late that his hand has settled against Alex's him in the act of curling his arm around him.
If it didn't draw attention, he'd probably move it away. But it would draw even more attention to it, and his awareness of it, and this is strange enough as it is.
So he just nestles his other arm underneath his head, because it's more effective than the shitty pillow he just threw at Alex so he'd have two. Why did they have to run into one another in time for the winter chill to set in? Why did they have to run into one another at all?
How did this become his life? ]
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maybe the big guy's growing on him. a tiny, tiny bit, now that he's not trying to kill him.
when he sits up a little to fluff his pillows and drop onto them with a thump, he doesn't move out from the arm around his waist. it's comfortable and warm and alex doesn't want to freeze to death. that's the real, only reason behind this, and he shuts his eyes with a huff, trying to fall asleep. everything feels louder, amplified, and he's finding very, very quickly that this is going to be impossible.
eventually, he mutters-- ] Stupid fucking cold. [ which is a sign that no, he's probably not going to be sleeping any time soon. ]
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Not as bad as it used to be.
Which he's never going to admit aloud, if he can help it, because this wasn't supposed to happen. This was never supposed to be. Shea wouldn't have killed him - because even years and years away from his birth pack, with years and years of torment and brutality, couldn't destroy the natural instinct to protect those like Alex - but he should have just left him there.
Instead, here they are now. And he curls easily at his back once he's settled down on the bed again, easy despite how much he wants to resist that ease. Besides, it means that he's not going to freeze to death. He's pretty sure that Alex will appreciate that above all else, even if it means sacrificing dignity or whatever. Like the brat has much of it left, after everything that's happened, but it's besides the point. ]
Welcome to the less luxurious side of the world. [ Voice quiet, he snuffles a little, shifting his shoulders to get comfortable. ] If it were summer, we'd probably be roasting alive.
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