Yeah, but then I wouldn't have concrete proof you're into kinky bullshit.
[Except, you know, the blaringly obvious other factors. Tate tries to shake off the moment here like a dog getting annoyed by a fly - he's okay with it except when it gets too close. Stop making him feel things. Idiot? Fuck. Did he do right here? Why's it feel so fucking embarrassing then.]
I like the sign, though. Wish something stuck with me the same way. Don't make it weird. I'll kick you.
[ If Tate's going to think he's a pervert, at least he's going to think he's dedicated to being a pervert. He still feels pretty fucking happy about this, and - only part of that is out of relief, to know that there isn't some book hidden away in Duplicity's library talking up the Hale pack. ]
I'm just happy you think about me when I'm not around.
[ Again - pretty sure his pack back home were just happy to be rid of him, after all the fucking training and yelling he put them through. Erica and Boyd must have fucking hated him, by the end. He - won't think about that. ]
Anyway. [ He rubs his neck. ] You've got the ocean. You've got birds. There are a ton of things in your life with an assigned meaning. I could give you a tat, if you drew out a design.
[ He's pretty good at that. Won't even have to use a blowtorch. ]
Wait, you actually know how to give tattoos are you like... winging it like the treehouse?
[Tate's intrigued, maybe more than he should be. He's never really been that into tattoos but it has been something he's thought about time to time. His mother would've never let him get one, or berated him until he died if he had. He's not interested in sleeves or ink for the sake of ink. But something with meaning? Yeah, he could get behind that. He leans forward a bit, obvious sign of his rapt attention.]
Because no offense, if that thing falls out of the tree? Okay. But shit fucking up when it's on my skin? No so okay.
[ It's - nice. Having Tate's attention. Especially when he knows this is something he can actually do. ]
First - fuck you. Second...
[ Derek sits up a little, drawing his knee up to his chest. ]
I spent years feeling trapped, after my family died. When you're that stuck in your head, you turn to art and writing and music to try and find an escape. I liked to read, but - I think I was always better at art than writing.
[ There's just - something satisfying, about being able to create something so visible and so tangible out of nothing. He was drawn to that after the fire, and he worked pretty fucking hard on cultivating an artistic skillset over those six years in new york. Too bad he'll only ever really use it to torch off Scott's skin and re-draw his tattoo in a year or so, back home. ]
[Doesn't need to say the obvious 'didn't peg you for an artist' thing, but he lifts his brows in what you could almost consider an impressed way. He'll have to stew on this a bit longer but he kind of likes the weird flutter in his chest at the idea of making choices here that matter. Changing things - himself - for real.]
[ Derek didn't peg Tate for a dead ghost, so. Derek doesn't peg Tate for a serial killer. We're all working outside our boxes today. ]
Yeah? Okay. We could, like.
[ Derek's-- getting a little excited, and it's there in his voice, but. Last thing he wants to do is pressure Tate into getting a tat just because his artist wants to fucking put one on him. Derek chills himself out a little, though - he's fucking Derek, so maybe the excitement in his voice wasn't all that obvious. Maybe Tate doesn't know him well enough to pick it up yet. Who knows. ]
We could... get it done in the treehouse, if you wanted it. Make it special.
Implies we'll finish the tree house. I like that kind of optimism.
[But he cocks his head to the side, both confirming and non-confirming all at once. It would be nice to mark the occasion but like Tate's already said - it's hard to see this as anything more than a pile of lumber and two jackasses with a saw between them. But he licks at his lip and then finally nods, toward the end of a pause.]
I'll think on it. If I'm getting something, I want it to really mean something - so. Really wanna think of the right thing. And then after that, I guess, where I want to put it. Got suggestions?
[ They're gonna get this done. Derek looks at Tate for a while, scrutinizing all this sarcasm, then sighs and gets to his feet. Back to work, apparently. He picks up some of the sawed-to-length planks he's prepared and starts lining them up, ready to nail this shit together. ]
I don't know. Mine's on my back, right between my shoulderblades. I don't know if you've ever seen it.
[Tate's silent and it might be, to the wiser of ears, a bad thing - the way children are silent before they're caught up to no good, hands in the cookie jar. His notebook ruffles when Derek's back is turned, and after a pause - Tate's behind him, hooking his fingers into the back of Derek's tanktop to try and pull it askew enough to see what he's talking about.]
Fuck you're sweaty.
[But, huh.]
It's cool, I guess. Little uneven, but nobody'd notice.
[ Derek's lived his entire life with one ear to the ground. Always listening for movement, always expecting someone to sneak up on him, always knowing he's never safe. It's a surprise, then, that he doesn't hear Tate approach. Doesn't even expect him to.
It's not a surprise, actually, it's - fucking disarming. Tate has the better of him. That'd be... a problem, Derek thinks, if he hadn't decided to trust Tate.
Tate moves his tanktop aside and Derek just stands there, letting it happen. He knows his tattoo isn't fucking uneven, but he does still get that knee-jerk reaction Tate was fishing for, that kick of anxiety. He just - grunts, shaking Tate off and turning around. ]
Had to burn my skin off so it would stick. Werewolf cells regenerate too quickly. Had to make sure as much of it stayed as dead as possible.
[Tate steps back playfully, but then rolls his eyes. It comes off like Derek's bragging about - being a badass? But he's being informative while being a jackass badass so Tate cocks his head to the side, wondering if there are literally any alternatives to blow torching oneself.]
How the hell'd you do that? You literally picked the hardest place to reach on your body.
[ He - was kind of bragging. He doesn't realize he was bragging, but he does on some level sort of want Tate to think he's cool. And a badass. But. He just -- scoffs. At the question. ]
Laura helped.
[ Anyway. He rolls his shoulders up, gets his tank adjusted, but now it's all folded over weird and resting with the straps sticking in a sweaty spot and it just feels fucking gross. He peels it off over his head and throws it in the dirt, and if he were anyone else, it'd be, like, sexy, or whatever, but he mostly just looks lightly pissed off and kind of miserable. ]
[Even though Derek's shirt-shedding is more aligned with a dog ripping its christmas elf-hat off in a fit of shaking heads and wet dog smell, Tate's eyes flick back to him - assuredly only to look at the now fully exposed tattoo for a moment of time before he turns away. Goes back to get his notebook, picking it up off the ground with his pencil.]
We'll know when I pick where I want it. It's... stupid, 'cause I can...
[He looks down at his hand, fingers curled around his pencil. He holds up his hand, the back of it facing Derek. Soft white lines trace out a triskele against his already pale skin; faded like moonlight-white scars. He flexes his fingers and it's gone.]
Perk of being dead. You can look how you want, sometimes.
[ Derek watches Tate settle, his eyes dropping to the notebook, and then to Tate's hand. His eyes widen, and there's something-- viscerally, alarmingly hypnotic about seeing the triskele on Tate's skin, and his stomach boils with the urge to just-- bite him. Here, now. Force him to be pack. Make that triskele count.
Tate makes it fade and Derek snaps out of it, which-- isn't hard, and probably isn't noticeable, given that the feeling only lasted for a second, but jesus. Tate's his pack. Derek still just wants him so badly. He's hungry. ]
I mean... that's...
[ God. Hold on. Derek rubs his forehead. ]
Even just the ritual of getting a tattoo done is going to mean something. Make it more real. Having it permanently etched into your skin means you won't have to think about changing yourself. It'll just - always be there. Right?
[Tate isn't sure if it's a good flicker of response or a bad one that goes over Derek's face, but he wonders if that's how he looks when he sees the red flood of him turning on the headlights. He drops his hand back to his side, but has to agree. The tattoo will have meaning, even if he'll still be able to cover it up when he thinks to.]
I guess I can just test out what I want and where for a little while. Are birds still really cliche?
[ Derek's - still thrown. It takes him a second or two to respond, and when he does, he has to - to find something to do with his hands, to keep occupied. He lines up nails in the wood. Doesn't hammer them in. Just - moves them around, tries to look busy. He sounds kind of sharp, when he talks again. ]
Who gives a fuck about cliches? All that matters is how you feel. If you love something and it makes you feel good, that's all that matters. That's all that should matter, at least.
[This is a test, made with a sideways smirk. Derek speaks so often about accepting him the way he is, that he's a good person. He's quick to defend Tate and try to open up every avenue he can for him but Tate, all the same, does like it when he also lays down a few ground rules. A careful balance of authority.]
Like, whole sleeve of firey skulls. Pin up girls and like. Tribal bands around my arm? No judgment?
[ Maybe a little judgment about Tate's taste level, but. Ultimately, nah. Derek shrugs one shoulder, pointedly looking down at the nails held between his fingers. Looking at Tate feels like it might be too much, right now. He just keeps seeing that triskele, burned in his head. Fuck, it's-- still a lot.
He clears his throat. Acts like everything's normal. ]
If a sleeve of firey skulls makes you happy, or if a slutty pin up girl has meaning to you - then that's the bottom line. I'd be honoured to give you whatever tacky bullshit you wanted.
[Tate laughs, because tacky bullshit is right. He moves to set his stuff down somewhere else and get back to being useful with the saw, or finding something small to busy his hands with for the time being.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[Except, you know, the blaringly obvious other factors. Tate tries to shake off the moment here like a dog getting annoyed by a fly - he's okay with it except when it gets too close. Stop making him feel things. Idiot? Fuck. Did he do right here? Why's it feel so fucking embarrassing then.]
I like the sign, though. Wish something stuck with me the same way. Don't make it weird. I'll kick you.
no subject
[ If Tate's going to think he's a pervert, at least he's going to think he's dedicated to being a pervert. He still feels pretty fucking happy about this, and - only part of that is out of relief, to know that there isn't some book hidden away in Duplicity's library talking up the Hale pack. ]
I'm just happy you think about me when I'm not around.
[ Again - pretty sure his pack back home were just happy to be rid of him, after all the fucking training and yelling he put them through. Erica and Boyd must have fucking hated him, by the end. He - won't think about that. ]
Anyway. [ He rubs his neck. ] You've got the ocean. You've got birds. There are a ton of things in your life with an assigned meaning. I could give you a tat, if you drew out a design.
[ He's pretty good at that. Won't even have to use a blowtorch. ]
no subject
[Tate's intrigued, maybe more than he should be. He's never really been that into tattoos but it has been something he's thought about time to time. His mother would've never let him get one, or berated him until he died if he had. He's not interested in sleeves or ink for the sake of ink. But something with meaning? Yeah, he could get behind that. He leans forward a bit, obvious sign of his rapt attention.]
Because no offense, if that thing falls out of the tree? Okay. But shit fucking up when it's on my skin? No so okay.
no subject
First - fuck you. Second...
[ Derek sits up a little, drawing his knee up to his chest. ]
I spent years feeling trapped, after my family died. When you're that stuck in your head, you turn to art and writing and music to try and find an escape. I liked to read, but - I think I was always better at art than writing.
[ There's just - something satisfying, about being able to create something so visible and so tangible out of nothing. He was drawn to that after the fire, and he worked pretty fucking hard on cultivating an artistic skillset over those six years in new york. Too bad he'll only ever really use it to torch off Scott's skin and re-draw his tattoo in a year or so, back home. ]
So. Yeah. Could be doable. If you want it.
no subject
[Doesn't need to say the obvious 'didn't peg you for an artist' thing, but he lifts his brows in what you could almost consider an impressed way. He'll have to stew on this a bit longer but he kind of likes the weird flutter in his chest at the idea of making choices here that matter. Changing things - himself - for real.]
I'll think on it. See if anything sticks out.
no subject
Yeah? Okay. We could, like.
[ Derek's-- getting a little excited, and it's there in his voice, but. Last thing he wants to do is pressure Tate into getting a tat just because his artist wants to fucking put one on him. Derek chills himself out a little, though - he's fucking Derek, so maybe the excitement in his voice wasn't all that obvious. Maybe Tate doesn't know him well enough to pick it up yet. Who knows. ]
We could... get it done in the treehouse, if you wanted it. Make it special.
no subject
[But he cocks his head to the side, both confirming and non-confirming all at once. It would be nice to mark the occasion but like Tate's already said - it's hard to see this as anything more than a pile of lumber and two jackasses with a saw between them. But he licks at his lip and then finally nods, toward the end of a pause.]
I'll think on it. If I'm getting something, I want it to really mean something - so. Really wanna think of the right thing. And then after that, I guess, where I want to put it. Got suggestions?
no subject
[ They're gonna get this done. Derek looks at Tate for a while, scrutinizing all this sarcasm, then sighs and gets to his feet. Back to work, apparently. He picks up some of the sawed-to-length planks he's prepared and starts lining them up, ready to nail this shit together. ]
I don't know. Mine's on my back, right between my shoulderblades. I don't know if you've ever seen it.
no subject
Fuck you're sweaty.
[But, huh.]
It's cool, I guess. Little uneven, but nobody'd notice.
[JOKING.]
no subject
It's not a surprise, actually, it's - fucking disarming. Tate has the better of him. That'd be... a problem, Derek thinks, if he hadn't decided to trust Tate.
Tate moves his tanktop aside and Derek just stands there, letting it happen. He knows his tattoo isn't fucking uneven, but he does still get that knee-jerk reaction Tate was fishing for, that kick of anxiety. He just - grunts, shaking Tate off and turning around. ]
Had to burn my skin off so it would stick. Werewolf cells regenerate too quickly. Had to make sure as much of it stayed as dead as possible.
no subject
How the hell'd you do that? You literally picked the hardest place to reach on your body.
no subject
Laura helped.
[ Anyway. He rolls his shoulders up, gets his tank adjusted, but now it's all folded over weird and resting with the straps sticking in a sweaty spot and it just feels fucking gross. He peels it off over his head and throws it in the dirt, and if he were anyone else, it'd be, like, sexy, or whatever, but he mostly just looks lightly pissed off and kind of miserable. ]
You won't have to worry about that. I assume.
no subject
We'll know when I pick where I want it. It's... stupid, 'cause I can...
[He looks down at his hand, fingers curled around his pencil. He holds up his hand, the back of it facing Derek. Soft white lines trace out a triskele against his already pale skin; faded like moonlight-white scars. He flexes his fingers and it's gone.]
Perk of being dead. You can look how you want, sometimes.
no subject
Tate makes it fade and Derek snaps out of it, which-- isn't hard, and probably isn't noticeable, given that the feeling only lasted for a second, but jesus. Tate's his pack. Derek still just wants him so badly. He's hungry. ]
I mean... that's...
[ God. Hold on. Derek rubs his forehead. ]
Even just the ritual of getting a tattoo done is going to mean something. Make it more real. Having it permanently etched into your skin means you won't have to think about changing yourself. It'll just - always be there. Right?
no subject
I guess I can just test out what I want and where for a little while. Are birds still really cliche?
no subject
Who gives a fuck about cliches? All that matters is how you feel. If you love something and it makes you feel good, that's all that matters. That's all that should matter, at least.
no subject
[This is a test, made with a sideways smirk. Derek speaks so often about accepting him the way he is, that he's a good person. He's quick to defend Tate and try to open up every avenue he can for him but Tate, all the same, does like it when he also lays down a few ground rules. A careful balance of authority.]
Like, whole sleeve of firey skulls. Pin up girls and like. Tribal bands around my arm? No judgment?
no subject
[ Maybe a little judgment about Tate's taste level, but. Ultimately, nah. Derek shrugs one shoulder, pointedly looking down at the nails held between his fingers. Looking at Tate feels like it might be too much, right now. He just keeps seeing that triskele, burned in his head. Fuck, it's-- still a lot.
He clears his throat. Acts like everything's normal. ]
If a sleeve of firey skulls makes you happy, or if a slutty pin up girl has meaning to you - then that's the bottom line. I'd be honoured to give you whatever tacky bullshit you wanted.
no subject
Thanks. Dumbass.