hacker plot » un: killjoy (nsfwish) // i still want his workout routine tho
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motivation
2019-01-21 08:34 am (UTC)(link)
[ derek's spent an entire day away from the apartment he's been assigned to, somehow managing to be both sour and bitter about being forced to live a life of luxury. or at least a life of comparative luxury, given that half the population in this place live in a filthy underground horrorshow. he's been given a very nice apartment, and that's great, but he also wishes this entire fucking city would just go fucking fuck itself, so it takes him a while to relax.
but he gets home, he strips, he lays down, he checks his messages. and, uh.
the, uh.
wow, the girls in this place really don't waste any time. it doesn't even occur to derek that this might be a misfire, he just... after quickly scanning the name killjoy on the network and not finding any clues that this is, like, spam, or an ad or something, he sinks into his bed and overthinks his reply. eventually: ]
Someone's direct.
[ he just sends that. ]
but he gets home, he strips, he lays down, he checks his messages. and, uh.
the, uh.
wow, the girls in this place really don't waste any time. it doesn't even occur to derek that this might be a misfire, he just... after quickly scanning the name killjoy on the network and not finding any clues that this is, like, spam, or an ad or something, he sinks into his bed and overthinks his reply. eventually: ]
Someone's direct.
[ he just sends that. ]
[Godric does not use the device all that often, so what gets sent out is a message to someone here who he is close to.]
Do not be sad for me. I have lived a very long and very tiring life. I met my death by my own hand, standing atop a roof to greet a beautiful sunrise. Some are not so lucky, and when one of my kind dies, it is usually grim.
I am not sorry for meeting the sun, so please do not be sorry for me.
Do not be sad for me. I have lived a very long and very tiring life. I met my death by my own hand, standing atop a roof to greet a beautiful sunrise. Some are not so lucky, and when one of my kind dies, it is usually grim.
I am not sorry for meeting the sun, so please do not be sorry for me.
[ after getting a video of a girl in her underwear, derek finds the next text he gets to be pretty fucking depressing. he doesn't understand the context, of course he doesn't, but a few tactful seconds pass before he figures out how he wants to handle this. ]
Wrong number, idiot.
[ okay, that wasn't very tactful, but he's not done. ]
I've never known someone who experienced a peaceful death. Quick deaths, maybe, but never peaceful.
I know this doesn't mean much, given that you don't know me - but for what it's worth, I'm not sorry for you.
[ a lot of people won't understand how fortunate godric was to die the way he did, but derek thinks he might. there's a small delay, and then - ]
You can't be human.
Wrong number, idiot.
[ okay, that wasn't very tactful, but he's not done. ]
I've never known someone who experienced a peaceful death. Quick deaths, maybe, but never peaceful.
I know this doesn't mean much, given that you don't know me - but for what it's worth, I'm not sorry for you.
[ a lot of people won't understand how fortunate godric was to die the way he did, but derek thinks he might. there's a small delay, and then - ]
You can't be human.
Edited (whoops shh shh shh) 2019-01-23 04:32 (UTC)
Hey.
I need to talk to you.
I need to talk to you.
Allison's gone.
All the texts I sent her bounced back and there's someone else living in her apartment now.
[ which doesn't necessarily mean she's gone, because her phone could just be dead or broken and she could have moved somewhere else, but this is the same thing that happened when scott disappeared so stiles isn't holding his breath. he can't even remember the last time he'd seen or heard from allison, which kind of makes him feel like shit on top of shit, but. that's fine. ]
I just thought you'd want to know.
One less thing for you to worry about.
[ and one more thing for him to beat himself up over. ]
All the texts I sent her bounced back and there's someone else living in her apartment now.
[ which doesn't necessarily mean she's gone, because her phone could just be dead or broken and she could have moved somewhere else, but this is the same thing that happened when scott disappeared so stiles isn't holding his breath. he can't even remember the last time he'd seen or heard from allison, which kind of makes him feel like shit on top of shit, but. that's fine. ]
I just thought you'd want to know.
One less thing for you to worry about.
[ and one more thing for him to beat himself up over. ]
[ he's been keeping an eye out, but derek didn't want to be the one to call it. stiles' message isn't a surprise, exactly, but it's still... something. a reminder, maybe, of how fragile things can be around here. ]
Alright.
[ and that's all he says, at first. he doesn't have any sympathy for allison, he doesn't care that she's gone. she was an argent, she was a killer in the making. there's no love to be lost here, and there's no reason for him to pretend otherwise. stiles wouldn't believe him, if he acted like he cared.
but allison wasn't... a worry. not really. a concern, sure, but between veracity, the fort, the guards, society at large, the fact that she never came after him, the bullet wound in his fucking bicep and stiles having gone out of his way to at least sort of vouch for her to derek? she wasn't high on his list of priorities. he doesn't feel more or less safe, with her disappearance. just...
he does feel concerned. stiles keeps losing people. first scott, now allison. he's been here for a few months - how many people has he become close to since his arrival to the city, only to lose them the same way he's lost people from home? derek is sensitive to loss, and after learning how he and stiles first met - back at the police station, all those years ago - he's all the more sensitive to stiles'.
hhhow does he approach that concern, though. how does he say he's sorry. derek wets his lips, and just... tries to breach this. ]
Are you okay?
I mean - do you want to talk about it?
Alright.
[ and that's all he says, at first. he doesn't have any sympathy for allison, he doesn't care that she's gone. she was an argent, she was a killer in the making. there's no love to be lost here, and there's no reason for him to pretend otherwise. stiles wouldn't believe him, if he acted like he cared.
but allison wasn't... a worry. not really. a concern, sure, but between veracity, the fort, the guards, society at large, the fact that she never came after him, the bullet wound in his fucking bicep and stiles having gone out of his way to at least sort of vouch for her to derek? she wasn't high on his list of priorities. he doesn't feel more or less safe, with her disappearance. just...
he does feel concerned. stiles keeps losing people. first scott, now allison. he's been here for a few months - how many people has he become close to since his arrival to the city, only to lose them the same way he's lost people from home? derek is sensitive to loss, and after learning how he and stiles first met - back at the police station, all those years ago - he's all the more sensitive to stiles'.
hhhow does he approach that concern, though. how does he say he's sorry. derek wets his lips, and just... tries to breach this. ]
Are you okay?
I mean - do you want to talk about it?
[ after tate spoke to him on the dom/sub finder app, derek knew they weren't... entirely broken, but. if tate is buttdialing him, it means he hasn't deleted derek's number from his phone. they're salvageable. that means something.
he listens, for a while, just to see if he can make out tate's voice - maybe he's in danger, maybe he needs help, maybe he called the first person he could think of because he's being held hostage at a... club. party. something. he doesn't hear tate, but he thinks he hears laughter, and that makes him a little less concerned. just a little. he hangs up and fires off a text. ]
You okay?
he listens, for a while, just to see if he can make out tate's voice - maybe he's in danger, maybe he needs help, maybe he called the first person he could think of because he's being held hostage at a... club. party. something. he doesn't hear tate, but he thinks he hears laughter, and that makes him a little less concerned. just a little. he hangs up and fires off a text. ]
You okay?
Quick question.
Do you have a flashlight?
Do you have a flashlight?
[ it's not really an unspoken rule that stiles is to leave derek alone while he's working out, but more of an unspoken - habit. stiles has absolutely nothing to contribute to derek's routine outside of like - inane, unnecessary commentary, and maybe like. a towel, occasionally, to mop up some sweat, but other than that, stiles is better at brains over brawn.
derek's been going at it for a while, though. longer than usual, and occasionally stiles can hear the clang of a weight being put down a little too hard or derek's labored breathing when he paces too close to the open door, but stiles doesn't really think too much of it. he's deep in his notes - the paper copy of everything that derek prefers to keep locked up when stiles isn't actively adding to it - rifling through pages, drawing lines through something here and there, highlighting something else or scribbling an additional note in the margins. stiles' laptop is open too, sitting on the opposite end of the coffee table in the living room so he can look back and forth between the digital file and the physical one spread out in front of him, the pages laid out in a very particular order.
he gets ink on his hand when tries to cap his pen and misses, and immediately licks his thumb to wet it so he can wipe at the line of ink over his knuckle, but he only gets so far as licking his thumb before he realizes that his mouth is super dry and he's actually really thirsty and he hasn't had anything to drink since this morning when he knocked back a glass of water with his medication. stiles nudges his laptop a little and gets up from the couch, his foot a little numb from sitting on it this whole time. he limps to the kitchen, yanks open the fridge - and if he makes a pleased little sound at the realization that there's a new carton of milk in the fridge, then no one has to know.
stiles smiles like an idiot, folding and pinching and pulling at the corner of cardboard until it opens up, and to no one's surprise, he starts to drink right from the carton, chugging like a man who's been in the desert for days. he doesn't hear derek anymore - but he does hear the terrifying sound of fluttering paper.
a gust of a breeze blows in through the door to the balcony that stiles tends to leave open more for derek's sake than his own, even if he's never really explained as much, blowing his carefully organized spread of notes off of the coffee table and into complete disarray. stiles nearly chokes on a mouthful of milk, nearly dribbles down his chin as he takes the carton away and hastily sets it down on the counter, scrambling out of the kitchen and across the living room to shut the door. for a moment, he just stands there with his hands on the glass, cheeks still puffed out because he has yet to swallow what's in his mouth, and then he turns, wincing slightly.
the floor is a mess. it's only about twenty pages of hand-written notes, but they're - everywhere, and blown out of whatever groups he'd separated them into. stiles swallows, runs both of his hands down his face and takes a deep breath. okay. okay, it's fine, it's not a huge deal. it's not like he can't reorganize and continue, it's just - frustrating.
with a sigh, stiles crouches and then sits. he crosses his legs and folds them underneath himself, and then starts to pick everything up, slowly rifling through the pages and piling them back up in chronological order, murmuring quietly to himself as he goes. ]
derek's been going at it for a while, though. longer than usual, and occasionally stiles can hear the clang of a weight being put down a little too hard or derek's labored breathing when he paces too close to the open door, but stiles doesn't really think too much of it. he's deep in his notes - the paper copy of everything that derek prefers to keep locked up when stiles isn't actively adding to it - rifling through pages, drawing lines through something here and there, highlighting something else or scribbling an additional note in the margins. stiles' laptop is open too, sitting on the opposite end of the coffee table in the living room so he can look back and forth between the digital file and the physical one spread out in front of him, the pages laid out in a very particular order.
he gets ink on his hand when tries to cap his pen and misses, and immediately licks his thumb to wet it so he can wipe at the line of ink over his knuckle, but he only gets so far as licking his thumb before he realizes that his mouth is super dry and he's actually really thirsty and he hasn't had anything to drink since this morning when he knocked back a glass of water with his medication. stiles nudges his laptop a little and gets up from the couch, his foot a little numb from sitting on it this whole time. he limps to the kitchen, yanks open the fridge - and if he makes a pleased little sound at the realization that there's a new carton of milk in the fridge, then no one has to know.
stiles smiles like an idiot, folding and pinching and pulling at the corner of cardboard until it opens up, and to no one's surprise, he starts to drink right from the carton, chugging like a man who's been in the desert for days. he doesn't hear derek anymore - but he does hear the terrifying sound of fluttering paper.
a gust of a breeze blows in through the door to the balcony that stiles tends to leave open more for derek's sake than his own, even if he's never really explained as much, blowing his carefully organized spread of notes off of the coffee table and into complete disarray. stiles nearly chokes on a mouthful of milk, nearly dribbles down his chin as he takes the carton away and hastily sets it down on the counter, scrambling out of the kitchen and across the living room to shut the door. for a moment, he just stands there with his hands on the glass, cheeks still puffed out because he has yet to swallow what's in his mouth, and then he turns, wincing slightly.
the floor is a mess. it's only about twenty pages of hand-written notes, but they're - everywhere, and blown out of whatever groups he'd separated them into. stiles swallows, runs both of his hands down his face and takes a deep breath. okay. okay, it's fine, it's not a huge deal. it's not like he can't reorganize and continue, it's just - frustrating.
with a sigh, stiles crouches and then sits. he crosses his legs and folds them underneath himself, and then starts to pick everything up, slowly rifling through the pages and piling them back up in chronological order, murmuring quietly to himself as he goes. ]
Edited 2019-04-21 16:23 (UTC)
[ the gym is supposed to be derek's sanctuary within a sanctuary. the den as a whole is obviously his home, but the gym is this quiet, tucked away part of it he can wile away the hours in, burning off his problems and pushing himself until it hurts. it's supposed to be his reset button.
with the full moon out, the gym's only making him feel worse. no matter what he does to tire himself out, he feels like he's pulling from a bottomless well of energy; he's sweaty and sore and red with effort, but the more his body hurts, the angrier he feels, and the angrier he feels, the less control he has over himself. all his usual methods for staying anchored during the full moon just-- aren't working, and if he paid more attention to himself, he'd know that this was coming from a build up of stress and foul moods, he'd know that he needs stiles here to ground him. he'd know that he could fix this if he just found a way to calm the fuck down.
when the wind blows through the main living area, derek's just finished swearing and throwing his weights down, hard enough to actually make a crack in the concrete flooring. he's already pissed, but the damage just makes it worse, because this is the fucking den, and it's the one place in the world he's supposed to keep safe and pristine - he's just so fucking frustrated with himself, with all his horrible behaviour and incomprehensible susceptibility to the moon. he feels weak. like a complete and total piece of shit.
he heads out, teeth grit, hearing stiles' scramble and using the frantic flurry of his footsteps to justify leaving the gym behind him. he's tense, close to snapping, and when he sees the situation in the living room - whatever frayed string was keeping his temper in check breaks. ]
Are they your notes?
[ those are stiles' notes. a mess of papers over the ground, the very same papers that derek tries to keep hidden and safe in preparation for whatever worst case scenario gets them into the wrong hands. derek's standing by the entrance to the room, sweaty and breathing hard, and his eyes flick up to the door by the balcony.
he-- sees white, a little bit. ]
Jesus, Stiles!
[ the snap comes hard and fast. he's never really thought about why stiles keeps the door open, but once he pieces together what happened - a wind blew in from outside, messing up what stiles was doing - all his cynical pessimism rears its ugly head. how the fuck could stiles leave the door open while he was working on something so important? so private and so fucking personal?
derek practically storms over, and he doesn't just shut the door to the gym behind him when he leaves - he slams it, shaking that half of the house, another fresh blow of wind blowing the papers back another few inches. derek's-- livid, and he's been livid like this before, but he had ways to calm down, back home. ways that aren't working. why is nothing working? ]
You-- they could have-- they could have blown out the window, they could have ended up on the street, someone could have-- why do you even have them out?
[ derek's talking loud and fast, looking at stiles like-- like he's an idiot, like he's that same fifteen, sixteen year old kid he was when they first met. like stiles is the stupidest person in the world for thinking the door needed to be open. ]
with the full moon out, the gym's only making him feel worse. no matter what he does to tire himself out, he feels like he's pulling from a bottomless well of energy; he's sweaty and sore and red with effort, but the more his body hurts, the angrier he feels, and the angrier he feels, the less control he has over himself. all his usual methods for staying anchored during the full moon just-- aren't working, and if he paid more attention to himself, he'd know that this was coming from a build up of stress and foul moods, he'd know that he needs stiles here to ground him. he'd know that he could fix this if he just found a way to calm the fuck down.
when the wind blows through the main living area, derek's just finished swearing and throwing his weights down, hard enough to actually make a crack in the concrete flooring. he's already pissed, but the damage just makes it worse, because this is the fucking den, and it's the one place in the world he's supposed to keep safe and pristine - he's just so fucking frustrated with himself, with all his horrible behaviour and incomprehensible susceptibility to the moon. he feels weak. like a complete and total piece of shit.
he heads out, teeth grit, hearing stiles' scramble and using the frantic flurry of his footsteps to justify leaving the gym behind him. he's tense, close to snapping, and when he sees the situation in the living room - whatever frayed string was keeping his temper in check breaks. ]
Are they your notes?
[ those are stiles' notes. a mess of papers over the ground, the very same papers that derek tries to keep hidden and safe in preparation for whatever worst case scenario gets them into the wrong hands. derek's standing by the entrance to the room, sweaty and breathing hard, and his eyes flick up to the door by the balcony.
he-- sees white, a little bit. ]
Jesus, Stiles!
[ the snap comes hard and fast. he's never really thought about why stiles keeps the door open, but once he pieces together what happened - a wind blew in from outside, messing up what stiles was doing - all his cynical pessimism rears its ugly head. how the fuck could stiles leave the door open while he was working on something so important? so private and so fucking personal?
derek practically storms over, and he doesn't just shut the door to the gym behind him when he leaves - he slams it, shaking that half of the house, another fresh blow of wind blowing the papers back another few inches. derek's-- livid, and he's been livid like this before, but he had ways to calm down, back home. ways that aren't working. why is nothing working? ]
You-- they could have-- they could have blown out the window, they could have ended up on the street, someone could have-- why do you even have them out?
[ derek's talking loud and fast, looking at stiles like-- like he's an idiot, like he's that same fifteen, sixteen year old kid he was when they first met. like stiles is the stupidest person in the world for thinking the door needed to be open. ]
hey
[He said give him time, so Tate did. Although he has no idea as to what Derek got up to, he texts him in the early afternoon and lets the fact his reply sit. Trying not to fret about it, wonder about it, stress about it. He has a cigarette and tries to forget about it for a while, waiting until Derek graces him with a reply.
Keyword: tries.]
[He said give him time, so Tate did. Although he has no idea as to what Derek got up to, he texts him in the early afternoon and lets the fact his reply sit. Trying not to fret about it, wonder about it, stress about it. He has a cigarette and tries to forget about it for a while, waiting until Derek graces him with a reply.
Keyword: tries.]
[ Even if Derek wanted to reply - which, in the wake of the full moon, he's not really sure if he does or not - he can't. The night took a lot out of him, and he ends up sleeping nearly the entire day away, waking up in the dead of night, hours after Tate tried to reach out to him. It's maybe 10pm when Derek sees Tate's text for the first time, but he leaves him on read, blearily needing time to wake up, to apologize to Stiles, to - tell Stiles, too, about the things Tate told him. About his death. About his dom.
It's late, when he hits back. 3am, maybe a little more. Derek's not sure how involved he wants to be in Tate's life anymore, but he's at least a little more sure now than he was a day and a half ago. ]
Hey.
It's late, when he hits back. 3am, maybe a little more. Derek's not sure how involved he wants to be in Tate's life anymore, but he's at least a little more sure now than he was a day and a half ago. ]
Hey.
[ Derek's been waiting for this. He won't admit it, but - the furtive glances to his phone, the impatient scrolling through his contacts all morning, it's all been leading up to this. He replies pretty fast. ]
Yeah. Of course.
I promised, didn't I? Said we'd get together more.
Need me to pick you up?
Yeah. Of course.
I promised, didn't I? Said we'd get together more.
Need me to pick you up?
Hey
Where are you?
Like right now
What are you doing?
Where are you?
Like right now
What are you doing?
A bed is just a shelf for your body when you're not using it.
[ it's... it's 3am. stiles is right next to him. derek is literally in bed with him. he could have just rolled over and talked to him. instead, derek has to slap for his phone in the middle of the night, blearily stare at his screen like he's looking into a small sun and then realize stiles sent that message now, in fact, and that it isn't just. delayed. until 3am.
okay. he sighs. texts back. ]
what
okay. he sighs. texts back. ]
what
[You know how this is supposed to be a safe haven but Tate's not sure if the invite is still open for him? Especially on rainy evenings when the scent of dirt and mud from the woods is up in the air, thick with wet leaves and the simple scent of cold air and misery. But that's the kind of evening he's there on, in a leather jacket that does little to repel the raindrops but smells like the man he's there to find. At least in this weather it's hard to tell what streaks down his face are raindrops and which are tears, the burn of salt along his lash line making him angrily wipe at his eyes as he stands next to a thick tree trunk as he stares in at Derek's house like the haunting, pale faced ghost he is.
She's gone.
He wanted to text that to him, to Stiles, to - anyone who would understand what it meant. But he doesn't like the way he gets looked at for being hung up on her, still in love with the scent of her hair and the way her eyes would meet his even for an instant. He'd taken to checking in on her in only mildly invasive ways, trying to watch her from afar and see - what she gets up to. What she does, day to day. But he hasn't seen her, hasn't been able to find her and... well. It looks bleak.
She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.
He thought he would handle this better. He thought he knew how to move on, but the idea of her being gone again rips a hole in his chest. The idea of not being able to win her back to him, to feel her hand on his face or hear her laugh at something he said? To never be able to have her say she forgives him, or have her welcome him back into her arms with a soft I love you? He'll never have that now. She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.
Arguably, he should be doing better than this. He is, if you account for the fact he hasn't trashed anything yet and only stole a few belongings - leaving a note on the off chance she returns. Leaving it in hopes she comes back, maybe to get mad at him for trespassing, to give him an excuse to hand her back her ipod with a hung head and grateful apology. He's only cried a few times, bitter and cold like this, but he's thought to reach out. Just struggled with how.]
can i come in?
[He texts to Derek, before knocking his knuckles on the front door.]
She's gone.
He wanted to text that to him, to Stiles, to - anyone who would understand what it meant. But he doesn't like the way he gets looked at for being hung up on her, still in love with the scent of her hair and the way her eyes would meet his even for an instant. He'd taken to checking in on her in only mildly invasive ways, trying to watch her from afar and see - what she gets up to. What she does, day to day. But he hasn't seen her, hasn't been able to find her and... well. It looks bleak.
She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.
He thought he would handle this better. He thought he knew how to move on, but the idea of her being gone again rips a hole in his chest. The idea of not being able to win her back to him, to feel her hand on his face or hear her laugh at something he said? To never be able to have her say she forgives him, or have her welcome him back into her arms with a soft I love you? He'll never have that now. She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.
Arguably, he should be doing better than this. He is, if you account for the fact he hasn't trashed anything yet and only stole a few belongings - leaving a note on the off chance she returns. Leaving it in hopes she comes back, maybe to get mad at him for trespassing, to give him an excuse to hand her back her ipod with a hung head and grateful apology. He's only cried a few times, bitter and cold like this, but he's thought to reach out. Just struggled with how.]
can i come in?
[He texts to Derek, before knocking his knuckles on the front door.]
[ The den is - home. It's a home carved into the furthest edge of the Up, as far from civilization as a residential property in Duplicity can be. They made it, Derek and Stiles, to be a refuge for the two of them. A sanctuary from some of the shit this city puts them through. A place to hide. A place that offered an illusion of safety. It was designed to be theirs, and Tate - Tate was never going to be a part of it.
But things change. Tate changes people. He's static, a ghost that hasn't evolved since 1994, but despite being still and constant and so concretely himself, he's the center of so many ripples in people's lives. Derek is weak to him. The way he cries, the way he looks broken and small and pathetic, the way he's always in such desperate need of-- of something, in need of a hug or in need of love or in need of fucking help, it all just-- it breaks Derek. Rewrites him.
None of the bad feelings, none of the hurt, none of the signs that Tate might be dangerous - none of it matters, not when Tate's standing on his doorstep, tear-streaked and lost and alone. Not when he's saying, again, that he needs Derek. Not when he's feeding Derek's need for him in turn. Of course he's allowed in the den. This place should feel like a second fucking home to him. He needs his pack. He needs his Alpha.
Derek slides open the door to the den without responding to Tate's message, lightly confused and pretty fucking worried. His heart seizes in his chest when he sees him, and-- and he doesn't think much of anything, past frantically ushering him inside to get him in the warm. He all but pulls Tate in over the threshold, closing and locking the door behind him. The rain's coming down harder, echoing off the distant roof and battering against the floor to ceiling windows. The world feels muted and cozy and distant, in the den. Warm. ]
Are--
[ Are you okay seems like a stupid question to ask, so Derek cuts himself off, holding his hands on Tate's shoulders. Tate's small and miserable and Derek has to bend down a little to get close, seeing through the wet, blond hair that hangs over his eyes to try and see him better. Fuck, he-- he needs to do something. Derek squeezes Tate's shoulders, mumbles a quick wait here, and then rushes down the hallway.
He comes back with a moss green towel, the same colour as his henley. Tate's wearing Derek's jacket, and - any other day, Derek might get on his case about wearing it in the rain, but fuck, he doesn't care, not right now. Nothing matters, except for getting Tate warm. ]
Take this off. [ He tugs on the edge of the jacket. He'll have to make him shower and get warm, he'll have to lend him some of Stiles' clothes. ] You're gonna get sick.
But things change. Tate changes people. He's static, a ghost that hasn't evolved since 1994, but despite being still and constant and so concretely himself, he's the center of so many ripples in people's lives. Derek is weak to him. The way he cries, the way he looks broken and small and pathetic, the way he's always in such desperate need of-- of something, in need of a hug or in need of love or in need of fucking help, it all just-- it breaks Derek. Rewrites him.
None of the bad feelings, none of the hurt, none of the signs that Tate might be dangerous - none of it matters, not when Tate's standing on his doorstep, tear-streaked and lost and alone. Not when he's saying, again, that he needs Derek. Not when he's feeding Derek's need for him in turn. Of course he's allowed in the den. This place should feel like a second fucking home to him. He needs his pack. He needs his Alpha.
Derek slides open the door to the den without responding to Tate's message, lightly confused and pretty fucking worried. His heart seizes in his chest when he sees him, and-- and he doesn't think much of anything, past frantically ushering him inside to get him in the warm. He all but pulls Tate in over the threshold, closing and locking the door behind him. The rain's coming down harder, echoing off the distant roof and battering against the floor to ceiling windows. The world feels muted and cozy and distant, in the den. Warm. ]
Are--
[ Are you okay seems like a stupid question to ask, so Derek cuts himself off, holding his hands on Tate's shoulders. Tate's small and miserable and Derek has to bend down a little to get close, seeing through the wet, blond hair that hangs over his eyes to try and see him better. Fuck, he-- he needs to do something. Derek squeezes Tate's shoulders, mumbles a quick wait here, and then rushes down the hallway.
He comes back with a moss green towel, the same colour as his henley. Tate's wearing Derek's jacket, and - any other day, Derek might get on his case about wearing it in the rain, but fuck, he doesn't care, not right now. Nothing matters, except for getting Tate warm. ]
Take this off. [ He tugs on the edge of the jacket. He'll have to make him shower and get warm, he'll have to lend him some of Stiles' clothes. ] You're gonna get sick.
[It's been a bit of a rough time with people coming and going in his life, so Tate struggled at first to address things but he's gotten through it shabbily a few times with both Stiles and Derek. The notion of dating another sub, maybe, just as a thought and what it would entail. How this city is shaped to negate that kind of thing, with relationships supposed to be through doms and subs. And even then, sex outside of that seems commonplace. So how does... it work? If you have feelings for someone. Do you just acknowledge it and say that's it, do you stuff it away and pretend it's not there?
And what do you do if you know the feeling's mutual? But you still have other people you need to see, to sleep with and obey? Tate's always considered himself more monogamous than not but here he's getting a hot taste of polygamy and he just needs... advice. On how to adjust to that. How to make sure it's - working.]
hey. hi.
got 5 mins?
just to help me w something
need some advice
And what do you do if you know the feeling's mutual? But you still have other people you need to see, to sleep with and obey? Tate's always considered himself more monogamous than not but here he's getting a hot taste of polygamy and he just needs... advice. On how to adjust to that. How to make sure it's - working.]
hey. hi.
got 5 mins?
just to help me w something
need some advice
[ Derek's out in the woods, but - that's pretty much the only place he ever is, these days. Stiles is often working, which makes Derek feel kind of lonely, or else focusing on his investigative work in the study, which Derek occasionally wants to step away from so he doesn't get in his way like the bumbling chucklefuck he sometimes thinks he is.
He's taking a break, resting on the framework of the treehouse that's still steadily coming along, when Tate hits him up. ]
What's up?
He's taking a break, resting on the framework of the treehouse that's still steadily coming along, when Tate hits him up. ]
What's up?
Hey
I'm meeting someone at The 13th Step at 5PM.
It's the guy from the network
The one with the RF reader
From the hotel
Just letting you know so if I go missing you know who you look for
I'm meeting someone at The 13th Step at 5PM.
It's the guy from the network
The one with the RF reader
From the hotel
Just letting you know so if I go missing you know who you look for
I'm kidding, it'll be fine.
It'll probably be fine.
But I might be a little bit late for dinner?
I might not even be late
But if I am, I'll make it up to you x
It'll probably be fine.
But I might be a little bit late for dinner?
I might not even be late
But if I am, I'll make it up to you x
[It's a cool night out in the woods, with the sun having gone down and the sky a stretch of indigo streaking black overhead. The stars are out, twinkling like little dots of snow over black velvet. Tate's got his backpack on and a bundle under his arm when he approaches the site of the tree house in making, looking up the rickety temporary ladder before ascending to the stabilized platform they've created as the basis for the house itself. No walls yet, no more than the scent of pine and sawdust - it's nice, nonetheless, to sit on as he does when he reaches the top.
He rolls out the sleeping bag he brought with him, and sets his bag next to him. Pulls out a six pack of beer and a brown paper bag full of greasy food. The burger's a bit cold but you take what you can get (literally,) when you're a thieving ghost who'd rather not bicker about permission just to get a late night snack. He eats it with one hand, using his phone with the other.]
the woods.
u around?
He rolls out the sleeping bag he brought with him, and sets his bag next to him. Pulls out a six pack of beer and a brown paper bag full of greasy food. The burger's a bit cold but you take what you can get (literally,) when you're a thieving ghost who'd rather not bicker about permission just to get a late night snack. He eats it with one hand, using his phone with the other.]
the woods.
u around?
[ His relationship with Tate has been... difficult, recently. It's been difficult since the start, when it was laden with panic attacks, violence and breakdowns in storage sheds - but Derek doesn't see it that way. Doesn't remember how it felt, when he didn't trust Tate. He sees the dip they're in now, with Tate mourning Violet and being contracted under someone else's thumb, as a dip in normalcy. An outlier. Like things between them are usually so much smoother. Kinder.
So when Tate invites him out, Derek feels pretty good. Feels like they're getting back on track. There's that kneejerk, worried reaction that always comes when Tate's in the woods this late - what if something's wrong, what if LIES gets the wrong idea and assumes he's living with Derek uncontracted, what if X, what if Y, what if Z - but that just pushes him to go out and see him. He heads out, locks the den up behind him even though Stiles probably could have done it himself, texting as he goes. ]
Coming.
Everything okay?
So when Tate invites him out, Derek feels pretty good. Feels like they're getting back on track. There's that kneejerk, worried reaction that always comes when Tate's in the woods this late - what if something's wrong, what if LIES gets the wrong idea and assumes he's living with Derek uncontracted, what if X, what if Y, what if Z - but that just pushes him to go out and see him. He heads out, locks the den up behind him even though Stiles probably could have done it himself, texting as he goes. ]
Coming.
Everything okay?
Hey.
Can you do me a favor?
If you're busy it can wait.
Can you do me a favor?
If you're busy it can wait.
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