[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.]
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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.