#and with the exception of noon- i have NEVER drawn these dudes before sigh

[ping-ski]

gitm fanart except its from my memory and i only knew like 3 characters here

i used a wheel w/ names + used a timer and only let myself have a minute to look at the character, then draw it from what i could remember

[19red]

hello, this is me trying to strong-arm my brain into stopping the constant tweaking and re-tweaking of the same stinking 3k so I can write on and get to the good parts of this project namely p and j having all the sex thank you very much

+

The day after Patrick and Jonny bang a chick together, Patrick wakes to the weight of an alien limb squashing his bladder. The alien limb belongs to a furnace-hot, tentacular mass plastered all along his back. The mass smells oddly familiar, kind of citrusy—as if it stole Jonny’s body wash.

Patrick squints his eyes open. A blade of sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains and stabs him in the face. Right under the window, Jonny’s suitcase dribbles clothes onto the floor.

It shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together, but Patrick’s really dumb first thing in the morning. Plus, he needs to pee. Bad. Which is pretty distracting.

He paws at the tentacle swung over his waist, fingers catching on—a beaded string. Did the alien mass steal Jonny’s bracelet too? Patrick struggles to lift his head. He wants to see.

The alien mass stole Jonny’s whole arm. What--?

A growl spills in a damp, ticklish huff into the crook of Patrick’s neck as the mass coils itself closer. Something hard pokes Patrick’s ass. His nostrils fill with a waft of scent his hindbrain understands as so viscerally Jonny that recognition smacks him dizzy.

The mass is Jonny. Last night, he and Patrick banged a chick together. That thing wedged between them, growing firmer by the second? That thing is Jonny’s—

Patrick’s heart plummets straight to his dick.

It’s okay. It’s whatever. Patrick isn’t gonna freak over a physiological response. Bodies are also really dumb first thing in the morning.

“Jonny,” he says, wriggling to catch Jonny’s attention. Jonny has always been his go-to guy in a crisis. Except, in this instance, he is also the crisis itself. Jonny’s hips buck forward once, twice—Patrick stops breathing for the handful of seconds it takes Jonny’s sleep-drenched, horny-ass body to lose interest and stutter back into relative stillness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks. Visions of impending awkwardness swarm his brain. If Jonny were to wake up right now, full-mast boner pressed to Patrick’s ass, and discover the tent pitched in the front of Patrick’s sweats, he might rush to conclusions. Their ability to make direct eye contact would definitely endure permanent damage. They’d have to restructure their life with the aim of reciprocal avoidance. Patrick would have to request a trade. Jonny would probably drop out of the NHL. He’d forsake hockey and society at large and end up trampled to death by a giant moose while he hides from Patrick in the Canadian wilderness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks again. When a whole minute drips away and Jonny doesn’t stir, he thanks the hockey gods. With very little, very slow movements, he dislodges the arm pinning him to the mattress. By the times he’s free, the light slanting in from the window changed the angle of its assault to his pupils. Still careful, he slides the covers off himself, sits up, swings his legs off the bed. His feet land on the floor just as a variation in the pattern of Jonny’s breathing alerts him it’s all been for nothing. Jonny is awake. Or, like, as close to awake as Jonny manages to be coffee-free and before noon. Which is not much, thank fuck.

“It’s early,” Patrick reassures him. Jonny gets real pissy when he doesn’t get his full eight hours. Patrick doesn’t want to get stuck with Captain seriously cranky and his legitimately lethal death glare on the flight back to Chicago.

Jonny hums, lids fluttering open and back closed immediately, dark lashes kissing the top of his cheekbones. Patrick expects him to just roll over and sink back deep into snoring, the man is easy like that, instead he plumps an arm over the empty space next to him and mumbles, “Come back,” so low Patrick feels the vibration of it in his belly more than with his ears. Jonny must think Patrick’s some chick, maybe his ex or the one from last night.

“Dude,” Patrick chuckles to clear his throat. This is prime chirp material. Jonny’s such a clingy loser. “It’s just me.”

The side of Jonny’s mouth that isn’t squashed into the pillow tugs up in a smile, then his eyes tremble open, searching the space in front of them for Patrick’s, as if he knew where to find him, as if he weren’t surprised. It’s a bit like being punched but with weird, devastating gentleness. Patrick’s left breathless and dazed, a slow ache spreading below his ribs. “Sorry,” he says, legs moving on their own accord. “Sorry, gotta piss.”

Jonny flops onto his belly and sprawls across Patrick’s side of the bed. With a sigh, he hugs Patrick’s pillow to his face. “Be quick,” he whines—or maybe not. It’s muffled and Patrick is already halfway out the door so he can’t be sure. It doesn’t really matter.

***

“Where’s Tazer?” Duncs asks in lieu of good morning when Patrick shows up at breakfast almost two hours later, no captain in tow.

Patrick chomps on a hunk of strawberry toast and shrugs. Contrary to popular belief, no clause in his contract bids him constant awareness of Jonny’s whereabouts.

Duncs squints, clearly feeling entitled to a degree of eloquence involving efforts of the verbal variety and resenting their lack.

“Don’t tell me he’s sick,” Shawzy says.

The legs of Stromer’s chair screech against the floor as he scoots away from Patrick. He ends up almost in Brinsky’s lap. “It better not be catching.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick puffs the words fat with annoyance. “He’s sleeping. I mean, I guess he...” He is for sure. No chance Jonny is still waiting. If Patrick barged back into his room right now, Jonny would laugh, would tell him to stop trying to make things weird. Patrick knows this rationally. Yet some spiked grip squeezes his insides with the same vicious strength of an anaconda trying to crush itself a snack.

People can’t die from upset conscience, can they? Especially not if the upset is unquestionably misplaced, right?

“I mean,” Patrick snaps after a second, “the fuck do I know.”

Duncs eyebrows shoot halfway across his forehead.

“Whoa,” Stromer gasps.

“Wait,” Shawzy says. “Are mum and dad fighting?”

Patrick grinds his molars. Everyone’s so fucking pressed. It’s not like Jonny is a regular at team breakfasts. In fact, unless attendance is mandatory, Jonny prefers to limit the number of people upon which he inflicts the ghastly spectacle of his slow de-zombification to a minimum.

Patrick casts his mind back to the last time the two of them didn’t resort to room-service during game trips. He dredges up both no recollection of that happening in years and the stomach-sinking hunch that maybe this is weird. Maybe he should have gone back. Maybe that would have been the normal thing to do.  

“Shut up,” he says, to the voice in his head and everyone else. He grabs a pitcher of coffee and fills his cup until it brims. “Don’t talk to me. I’m waking up.”

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Shawzy appraises.

He’s more right than he’d probably care to know—nope. Patrick yanks his thoughts away before they can trip over that precipice and splat into the phantom embrace of Jonny’s body and its heft, its warmth, its neediness.

“Shut up,” he repeats, and with big emphatic motions designed to put a period on the conversation, he whips out his phone. He trusts the mindless scrolling will work its time-warping, mind-numbing magic and when he’ll look up next, all the weird will have been purged from this day.

Between sips of coffee, he pores through the stats for the last game, skims the emails in his inbox and rage-reads a review trashing the new Twilight book. He considers sending the link to Erica so he can vent about the snobby assholes who think they’re smarter than everyone else just because all the books they read are boring as fuck, but she’s probably at work already. He scrolls through his contacts. The one of the chick from last night jumps out. Her name’s Chelsea, which is pretty lucky. She was hot, Patrick recons, and thinking that feels normal. Feels safe. Feels like something Patrick would love to feel more of, thank you very much.

Hi, he types, riding the spur of the moment. This is Patrick from last night.

Stupid and risky, his inner Jonny warns. Never give your number to one night stands. Patrick ignores him and for the sake of clarity and glory, adds, The one who made you see god with his tongue.

“Look who’s joining us,” Shawzy’s voice announces just then.

Patrick’s gaze springs up, landing squarely across Jonny’s chest. Patrick knows it’s Jonny’s chest even though he doesn’t let his gaze climb up to the face attached to it for confirmation. The chest is sailing across the breakfast hall toward Patrick. Well, not toward Patrick specifically. Toward Patrick and the rest of the guys.

“Morning,” Jonny mumbles, dropping his scrambled eggs on the table and his ass between Seabs and Crow.

Patrick’s phone chimes.

well hello patrick 😜

“Slept well?” Shawzy probes, feigning innocence. Patrick’s hackles rise.

“I guess,” Jonny says.

Patrick allows himself another quick glance. Jonny looks good, which means like his usual self, which means nothing like a dude who went through the transformative experience of witnessing his best friend o-face.  It’s kind of annoying, actually. Patrick’s nerves are all fried. He’s half-convinced in the right light anybody could look at him and simply—tell. Patrick Kane got off with another dude in the room and enjoyed it. For a blink he’s fourteen and trying to fight a guy almost double his size who called him a cocksucker, that slammed him against the boards and told him not to bother standing up since everyone knows he does his best work from his knees.

His phone chimes again.

“Tell me the truth.”

totally hit me up again next time ur back here

“What?”

Patrick’s heart rate spikes. Would Jonny even be up for it?

Won’t be for the rest of the season :(, he types.

Maybe things feel weird because threeways are a novelty, maybe they just have to work up an immunity. People have threeways all the time and afterward their lives go on undisrupted. But if you’re ever in Chicago… his fingers are so clammy they smudge the screen when he hits send. He reaches for his cup.

“Did you keep our Kaner up all night?”

Patrick’s head jerks up.

“What?” Jonny says, flat.

For the first time since Patrick sneaked out on him, they make direct eye contact.

Shawzy drones on in the background, “Saw you trying to score that hot--”

It last precisely long enough for a sip of coffee to get its lanes mixed as it plunges down Patrick’s throat and somehow u-turn its way out of his body through the nostrils.

Patrick’s lungs try their best to turn inside out.

“Dude,” Shawzy says.

Stromer slaps Patrick’s back a couple of times, hard.

Duncs throws a handful of paper napkins in his general direction and winces in open disgust as Patrick snatches one mid-air and uses it to dab at the liquid leaking out of him. “Gross.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Patrick informs them tartly between fits of coughing. Some treacherous asshole on his right is fucking cackling. He sweeps the table with an encompassing glare and catches Jonny’s eyes again, all dark with concern. The back of Patrick’s neck prickles with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he repeats, steadier, and Jonny looks away so Patrick does too, hurriedly withdrawing like from the touch of something scalding.

He zeros in on Chelsea’s new message.

might fly in for a couple of weeks around christmas actually

Patrick latches on to the conversation, blocking out his surroundings, trying his hardest to look busy. Fuck everyone and Jonny too.

We could catch up then if you have time ;)

totally 👅🔥🍆🔥, she texts. And after a moment, say hi to porn dick from me btw

Who?

🙄

Patrick bristles. For some reason, the thought of this random stranger sitting around with her head full of pictures of Jonny’s dick makes him hitch. His chest riots with some misguided protective instinct. Jonny would be insufferably smug if he knew, no doubt about it. It’s not that big.

it is! 100% porn worthy

You don’t know what you’re talking about

???

I’m just saying, are chicks even into that? he writes, just to be an asshole but also because he’s pretty sure chicks hate porn. It’s supposed to be a feminism thing. Erica once made him a whole speech about it or whatever.

big dicks? They are

Haha

their also into porn btw this aint the middle ages AND they have way better taste in it then men

Can you prove it? he asks, hoping it sounds flirty and not confrontational. He wants this chick to bang him again but not over the head with a blunt instrument.

maybe if u stop trying to outdick ur bf with ur personality ill send you some recs

“Who are you texting?”

Patrick elbows his cup off the table and scrambles to catch it before it crashes against the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his coffee-soaked hand.

Jonny laughs and at the sound, Patrick’s heart stumbles, then sprints up his throat. “You’re a mess,” Jonny says. He stole Stromer chair.

“Yeah, no, fuck off.”

Stromer is nowhere to be found. He and the rest of the guys must have migrated to the lobby. Patrick picks up the phone from where he abandoned it to make the save and shoves it deep into his pocket just as it pings.

Jonny quirks an eyebrow. He’s smiling.

It feels like Patrick trudged around all morning with a lead rib-cage before the universe caught the glitch. The sudden slack from gravity makes him giddy.  “Don’t be nosy.”

“I’m not!” Jonny protests, all put upon outrage. He flicks Patrick on the hand. “Just saying, team’s gonna suffer if you sprain a thumb.”

A laugh bubbles up Patrick’s chest, loud and easy, and just a little embarrassing.

For a moment, Jonny looks impossibly pleased but then he catches himself. “Everything alright, yeah?” he asks, turning bashful. His eyes drift to the small heap of crumbs he’s sweeping together with his pinkie.

Patrick nudges his thumb against the back of Jonny’s hand. “Yeah. You?”

Jonny’s lips curl up at the corners. “Of course,” he says, looking up, gaze dark and soft.

Of course, of course, of course. Jonny would never let anything happen to them. Patrick stomach flutters. “Okay,” he smiles, dimples out, and Jonny beams back. Time goes fuzzy as they stare at each other in silence—until the ping of an incoming text makes them both startle.

“Again?” Jonny bitches. A moment later, his forehead creases and he puts his serious face on, “Everything okay with your sisters?”

“Yeah, no. It’s not--” Jonny’s eyes flicks to Patrick’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t realized he’d been chewing on his bottom lip. He stops and it tingles, his own breath turning chilly enough to sting as it laps over the bite. “Just-- the chick from last night,” Patrick’s tongue says forgoing any input from his brain. It’s fine. It’s whatever.

“Oh,” Jonny says.

The world keeps rolling. Unfortunately, so does Patrick’s tongue, “Yeah. She’s cool. She was fun.”

“She was okay.”

Patrick can’t believe the understatement. “Okay? Just that? You’ve got some tough standards, man. She was--” as he searches for the right adjective, it suddenly hits him that Jonny has more experience, at least when it comes to threeways. It’s fucking unfair, but entirely possible, the mind-blowingest sex of Patrick’s life would barely chart as okay for Jonny. While he was dating Lindsay, the two of them got up to some kinky shit, Patrick’s pretty sure. Not that he spent any time thinking about it. He licks his lips. “It was hot, right?”

Jonny scoffs. What an asshole.

“Fuck you.”

“It was hot,” he grants. His cheeks are turning pink. He means it.

It feels like scoring the game-winner in the Stanley Cup final. The rush of triumph makes him cocky. “Hotter than the one you had with Lindsay?”

Jonny scoffs again, to Patrick infinite delight. “It was!” Patrick surmises.

“Lindsay’s hotter than her.”

“No way,” he is so offended on Chelsea’s behalf, he barely registers the deflection. Lindsay dumped Jonny. No matter how she looks, her insides must be rotten. Patrick hates that Jonnys is still hung up on her. He kicks Jonny’s foot to make sure he has his attention. “Maybe we should try again. Chelsea’s coming to Chicago around Christmas.”

“Is she?” Jonny kicks him back. “You two move fast.”

“She’s got family there, I think.”

“Sure,” he sounds skeptical. He admitted it was hot, why wouldn't he want a rematch? He and Patrick and some hot chick, she doesn’t even have to be Chelsea, she can be whoever. Small and blonde, like Jonny likes.

“Or we could find someone else,” Patrick says, growing more committed to the idea each second it lives in his brain. “Just go out and see what happens.”

“You think that’s smart?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I think you’re boring.” He goes in for the kill, “Captain serious.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d even let you pick, I don’t care.”

“Starting to sound a bit desperate there, Kaner,” Jonny flashes his most punchable smirk, the one that’s a little lopsided and always makes Patrick squirm.

Patrick starts a mental list of ways to wipe it off his face. Maybe if he shoved two fingers up Jonny’s nose… “What?” he asks, kind of distracted.

“I’m just saying, If you want to see me naked that bad, you only have to--”

“Fuck you,” Patrick sputters. “I was being generous. Bros before hoes or whatever.”

“I’m telling Erica you said that.”

The thought is terrifying. “Don’t,” Patrick shrieks, so loud people in their proximity stop mid-munching to give them the stink eye.

It’s their cue to clear off, a pretty timely one, considering they barely make it on the bus. They’d probably be yelled at, if they weren’t Kane and Toews.

Jonny saunters past Colliton’s glare and flops down next to Seabs. Patrick takes the two seats right behind, stretching out until he’s almost horizontal.

He checks his phone. Chelsea sent him a text and a link. The texts says, one of them looks a bit like your boy. you’re welcome. The link-- Patrick slaps the phone face down on his thigh.

“You okay there, Kaner?” Jonny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Patrick feels his ears burn redder than the Hawks home jersey. “Yeah, no. Real peachy.”

[corescorner]

So That New Video Huh?

Okay holy shit, I’m gonna do an analysis for it. I’ve never done this before and no one literally has ever asked me to do this but youre getting it anyway cause this is the only place I can gush about this so freakin deal XP

First off, I woke up at two AM cause I’m A Disaster like that, and was greeted with this wonderful video. So naturally I make a pot of coffee and some Crofters toast and get on with my analysis.

Also! THE SWEATERS AND SCARVES! I WANT ALL OF THEM! On that note huge preesh to my Mum -even though she’ll never see this- who’s helping me buy one of the sweaters even though she doesn’t have to cause I’m a Grown Ass Adult ™ with my own money. Kind of. 

Anyway on with the analysis! Under the cut cause Daaaaaaaaaaaamn is it long.

- Thomas' jacket! I want it.

-That ad intro though XD 

-RAAAIID!!

-I be a real floozy XD

-Don't trust an old viking like me: Thomas Sanders (you know, the youtuber)

-PIrateS DiDn’T ReallY TAlk lIke ThIS! Reexamine your cultural biases!

-'what the hell is that accent?' going a liiittttle Remusy voice there Tommy.

-his ears scrunched down by the helmet and the beard string...

-Hahahahahaa, masculinity is a prison!

-SANDERS ASIDES! Nice.

-OKAY SO, this is literally the first thing I did when waking up and my mind was not ready for them TO BE HANGING OUT ON THE COUCH, suffice to say I had a mini freakout to myself and then excitedly continued.

-THE ONSIES I WANT VIRGILS!! THEY'RE ALL SO CUTE

-a florida dwelling man, who never leaves his house. Good point XD

-Romans immediate Sass™ Love It 

-Virgil’s Just As Sassy Thumbs Up. Hyello!

-*gasp* ohmygoodness it’s all Frozen. Oh whoever could have predicted that! Roman... Please.

-Virgil’s eye squint at Roman when he announced 100% of the votes were frozen and Pattons excited cheering even though he just said he didn't vote for it so there's no way it could have been 100%

- Now that I think about it, if Roman didn't rig it, I think they'd probably be at a standstill with, ya'know all their votes being on what they wanted to watch. 

-mmnnmmmnnn falsehood. It was so calm this time. soft falsehood.

-Paton’s incredulous 'too childish?!' he says this like he's recently seen Logan wear his and he's like 'what, but what'

-how can Thomas feel B.A.D with his inner D.A.D We👏 Get👏 It👏 You're 👏Adorable!

-VIRGIL: I CAN THINK OF A FEW WAYS. PATTON’S SAD LOOK!

-redirecting his attention to something good.... or neutral.

-ROMANS SASS

-Who among us can forget the absolute bop that is...... this weird ice cutting song. Roman with the sarcasm. 

-Pat: pretty cool/what it’s a chilled out groove! Lo: I might need you to leave. 

-Virgil's constant just Overthinking™ and not actually paying attention to the movie really. Mood.

-WHOS KID IS HE?! WHY DOES NOONE NOTICE THEY’RE LEAVING HIM

-some things need time.... Like evolution! Cute Nerd Alert.

-Patton blowing on his drink

-I ALso LOve you Olaf!

-VIRGIL’S LOOK AFTER THAT

- no you’re mine now

-I love that Roman commentates on movies he watches cause that is 100% Me

-’the heart is not so easily changed’ Lo: No it isn't. Pat: Hmm? 

-’but the head can be persuaded’ Ro: Can it though?

-’fear will be your enemy.’ Virgil’s looooooook T.T

-Pat and Ro: JOOOOAN! Virgil and Lo say nothing. Thomas:..... Joan... 

-it’s making me too aware of the passage of time! Ooooooof big Mood™ bro.

-REMUS!!! :D

-Of course he's naked, cause why wouldn't he be, they're all in their comfortable clothes.

- they're gonna die at seea! :D

-I sleep in the buff. Thank you Remus. No seriously, good to know.

-Virge: Did i screw everything up? Ro: No I threw out your vote so you couldn't do that. ROMAN!

-Patton’s head bob in agreement about missing the hand drawn movies

-Roman’s actual misunderstanding that virgil wasn't talking about frozen being the wrong decision.

-Verge: How are you telling me to settle into something right now when you've taken your sweet time to settle into things that you were uncomfortable with in the past? Virgil with the shaaaade.

-Pat: I just think we should all relax. Virge: You do realize who you’re talking to  right?

-Virgil's genuine confusion if Lo is asking him that question cause hes always so literal and then proceeds to tell him the number anyway.

-’why have a ballroom with no balls?’ Remus’ snicker, same.

-Just give in to the raunchy jokes Thomas, it's funny.

-Roman imitating Hans’ 'evil plotting face'

-Ro in Dude Bro Voice: aw man yea I’m so fucked up on chocolate fondue I don’t even know what im sayin right now

-All of the others smiling at that. Is Roman doing this to make them smile?

-Patton whines, Logan: Is something wrong Patton? UM Logan asking about FEELINGS Cute.

-there's no way shes coming out of this situation without trust issues. Mmmmmmyea.

-Ro: except for the footprints behind you. Lo:HEy YEa!

-Pat, quietly: don’t let them in don’t let them see. PATTON! SOMEONE HUG DAD PLEASE

-Virge: he may have been an idiot back in the day, but hes not anymore... Virge, are we talking in double meanings here?

-Lo: she shouldn't let go of more of her clothing that’s for sure, shes gonna freeze to death. Lo, she has ICE POWERS. I'm sure she’s fine. The cold never bothered her anyway.

-Logans confused, what about a bridge? Metaphors Lo.

-Pat: let it go! Ro: lie low in our kingdom of ICEolation, come on paton don’t go for the low hanging fruit.

-Lo: There’s a storm out tonight!? Well, obviously Thomas has to stay home why are we debating this. No, Lo honey, it’s still a metaphor.

-Lo: you think this castle has a lavatory? Pat: ICE TOILET! Ro: or a bed? Pat: ICE BED! Lo: this place sounds awful.

-Pat: his thing with the reindeer? Lo: outside of nature's laws? Re: he DEFINITELY FUCKS THE REINDEER! I THOUGHT THE SAME THIIIIIING.

-Ro: If OnLy ThErE wAs SoMeOnE OuT ThErE wHo LoVeD YoU 'hans evil plotting face'

-Logan pointing out Romans constant shade at he movie.

-UM! THIS IS HOW I SHOW MY LOVE UM EXCUSE YOU, My Prinxiety heart.

-Romans complete legit reason why Ana should have been saved by Olaf.

-Virge: I bet he’s talking about you right now. THOMAS' FACE.

-Pat: Thomas has talked about him to other people. Patton likes gossip?

-Ro: WERE ALL GOSSIPY BITCHES SOMETIMES!

-Logan AGREEING that they’re gossipy bitches XD

-OKAY I LOVE THAT RO IS THE ONE WHO SWEARS THE MOST

-Patton pointing a logans points in agreement

-VIRGIL IS SPIRALING, deep breaths kiddo!

-Virge: just think about it. Thomas: LIKE I HAVE A CHOICE

-Virge: he trusted you enough to share a history that he wasn’t proud of with you. Again talking in double meaning here Verge?

-Virge: ‘he wouldn’t have gotten around to some of the stuff you wanted to know about on his own. More backstory to unlock mayhaps?

-Logan doing the countdown thing to help with the anxiety.

-Thomas going along with it without question, Virgil.... kinda going along with it?

-Virgil’s soft ‘.... blinds...’ after naming things that were like existential crisis things XD

- Thomas and Virgil tasting the same thing? Do they all taste what Thomas tastes? Or were they eating together?

-Lo: You are safe. T.T Loooooooogaaaaan

-LOGAN TOTALLY OWNING THAT THOMAS CALLED HIM COOL! CAUSE YOU ARE!

-Virgil’s soft look when Thomas is talking about adjusting and then saying that he still thinks theyre friends! UM again with the double meanings?!

-Thomas: things will be alright between us. PATTON LOOKS AT VIRGIL Cuuuuuuute

-Roman’s metaphor that makes no sense to the situation.

-Thomas: thank you Roman, that’s barely applicable.

-and then his look of 'you're welcome' XD

-ROMANS SASS!!

-Logans list of Elsa’s powers

-Patton nodding along to it and then his 'yea it all checks out' XD

-Logan’s thoughts on Arendales military being just Elsa cause of her powers.

-Virgil’s soft smile and sigh.... ‘Too bad we didn’t go to that party.’ VIRGE!

-Anxiety music starts, what if your soulmate was there and now you’re never gonna get another chance to meet him

-Ro reaching in Virgil’s direction OH SHIT OH SHIT!

-Oof youre freaking out princey there Virge

-Lo: watching a film is too passive of an exercise to allay Thomas' troubled thoughts, Virgil’s cute shrug and thumb nail biting like 'welp'

-DECEIT!!!!!!! ROMAN WHY DO YOU HAVE HIS HAT DO YOU HANG OUT TOGETHER, WHY WERE YOU IN HIS ROOM WHY WAS HE NOT WEARING IT WHAT WAS HE DOING WHEN YOU STOLE IT!

-Dee: I was looking for this! So he doesn't always lie, that’s good to know.

-Virgil’s HISSING! Okay sure, but he wasn't even talking to you man calm down XD

-Dee: DONT TOUCH MY SHIT *finger waggle*

-Romans face! Like, yep I saw this coming and i did it anyways, and I’m probably gonna do it again in the future.

-HOW OFTEN DOES ROMAN RIG VOTES?

-Logans interest in rewriting Frozen

-Ro: no. yes. I don’t know what you’re asking. Roman, it was kinda self explanatory XD

-everyones expressions when roman is talking about how he’s gonna rewrite it.

-YEA YOU LET THOSE CREATIVE JUICES FLOW!

-Virgil’s little ‘aw hell yea’

-REMUS: eh not my kind of fanfiction! WHAT FANDOM DOES HE READ FOR!? DOES HE READ STUFF ON HIMSELF AND THE OTHER SIDES!?

-ALSO HE’S RIGHT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE COUCH NEXT TO LOGAN NAKED, HOW MUCH CAN LOGAN SEE?!

-I’m going to bed. IN THE BUFF. Yes, you’ve stated this before XD

-everyones contributions to the fic

-Pat: I see your point Virgil, but how about this: nobody dies.

-Joan at the end XD Joan should do more ads with Thomas, they’re great.

-Thomas: you just do it XD

-LOGAN APOLOGIZING TO HIS ONESIE! MY FUCKIN ASS YOU HAVE NO FEELINGS YOU'RE APOLOGIZING TO AN INANIMATE OBJECT MY DUDE!

-So this is obviously after DWIT, cause of Remus’ appearances and Logan’s ownage of being called cool. But is it right after? Or is there gonna be a prequel type video next that happens before this and exactly after DWIT?

-Thomas being sad hurts me.

-Did I mention how much I LOVE THAT THEY’RE JUST CHILLING WATCHING A MOVIE HOW OFTEN DO THEY DO THIS!?

-Logan drinking his... coffee? Kinda drinking it. If they taste what Thomas tastes(??) does it happen the other way around? Probably not right? Or is it one of those things where it’s a phantom taste or craving type situation?

-Roman lounging on a bean bag chair in front of an actual chair, yea same.

-BUT ALSO VIRGIL SITTING ON THE BACK OF THE COUCH. I do that too much, or like on the arm.

-Logan just fuckin wearing dress shoes like they’re not just at home on the couch watching a movie.

[new-blog-new-things-blog]

Are you kidding me?! Part 6

Bucky x Reader

Word count: 1900 Warnings: Swearing? Slow burn af

The next test was quite similar to the previous one, although it seems I had started some form of friendly competition between Nat and Bucky. Well I think it was friendly anyway, it mostly consisted of Nat throwing insults and taunts at Bucky trying to get a reaction from him that she didn’t get apart from a cocky, lopsided smile which got her more agitated.

This test varied in time as it was about seeing how long they could covering their tracks when hacking stuff or something like that, Thor was out almost instantly but didn’t seem to care. He seemed like not a lot bothered him, he kind of reminds me of a puppy who just gets happy at the most random things. Steve got ‘found’ next to his dismay, followed by Sam then Clint.

Tony looked bored as he tapped away at the computer, Bruce had a concentration face but didn’t look too complexed at his screen. Everyone knew they could do this for as long as they needed so it came down again to Nat and Bucky.

Natasha didn’t look away from her screen, brows knitted together, anyone could tell she is starting to find it difficult but really wants to beat Bucky. I watched her for a moment and smiled, a woman that could probably kill anyone she wanted within a matter of seconds stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth when she was focused on a computer.

Glancing over at Bucky I found him already looking at me, he looked like he was playing with Natasha, like he was having any trouble with task at all. He peered down at his computer again, I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. I seriously need to get a grip.

Sam came up behind me putting his hands on my hips, he whispered in my ear a moment later.

“You seem to have started something Lady”

I huffed a laugh, leaning back against him.

“You think I don’t know that, all this over who I put my faith in, a silly bet.”

Out of the corner of my eye I recognise Bucky watching the interaction with me and Sam.

“I would do a lot more than computer tests for you to put your faith in me.”

Sam continued squeezing my hips, looking at the floor I couldn’t help the blush that spread across my cheeks.

“Charmer.”

I retorted with a smile, Sam opened his mouth to reply but got cut of by Bucky standing up, letting loose a string of obscenities. I guess that meant he lost, Natasha got to her feet quickly, hands raised in the air in victory. It almost sounded like he growled at her but then his eyes snapped to myself and Sam, eyes narrowing at us. I stepped out of Sam’s grip, taking a step forward towards Bucky but he was stalking towards the door.

“Looks like I was wrong, it was misplaced shifter.”

The words out of Bucky’s mouth were flat, his shoulder hit mine as he passed me making me take a step back. He didn’t even look back as he strode through the door, confused was an understatement. Gone was the shy man thanking me for breakfast, it was pure agitation on his face just then.

Steve quickly appeared beside me, another apologetic look on his face. I wonder how many messes Steve had to make right for that man.

“Sorry about that Y/N Bucky is a pretty sore loser, he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

I nodded as Tony and Bruce called a truce on the programming. Apparently that was it for today, the weapons training and hand to hand combat would come tomorrow. Tony asked J.A.R.V.I.S to order food for everyone from the Chinese down the road. Everyone was at dinner with the exception of The Winter Soldier, who had done a disappearing act.

After dinner I took a stroll to the library to find a good book to read, deciding to spend the rest of the evening in my room. Turning the corner I walk into Bucky, I mean literally walk right into his broad chest. It was like walking into a brick wall, I lost my footing, falling to the floor landing right on my butt.

Great, awesome, just what I needed.

Bucky froze, as if he was assessing the situation so I decided to speak up from the floor.

“We need to stop meeting like this.”

I started to get up off the ground when a hand appeared in front of my face, grabbing it Bucky helped me to my feet.

“You should watch where you are going.”

His tone was still pretty flat, maybe Cap was wrong, maybe it was personal. But what could I have done so suddenly for him to be like this?

“Yeah um yeah I’m sorry dude, just heading to the library but you didn’t ask that and yeah so I’m gunna go now. Sorry again.”

Jesus, why does this man make me feel so goddamn nervous? I rush around him, heading straight to the library without looking back. It takes me a few minutes to chill out when I first get there, but I find a book pretty snappish and head back to my room for the rest of the evening.

Everyone met in the range just after noon the next day, time to learn about weapons I guess. Looking around at the varied weaponry around the room my eyes were instantly drawn to the crossbow, stalking over to it I run my hands over the metal.

“I want this one!”

I announced to anyone who was near enough to listen, not surprisingly Clint was the one who answered me.

“A woman with good taste, stick with me and I’ll sort you out.”

He walked over grabbing the bow and quiver next to the crossbow, without warning he drew an arrow and fired without looking. When the thud sounded a second later I whipped my head round to see that it had perfectly imbedded in the centre of the target at the far end of the room. I hadn’t even realised I had taken my bottom lip between my teeth.

Why are all these men so hot?

I can’t deal with them all.

A sudden gunshot rang out startling everyone, all eyes were on Bucky who slowly lowered his gun which was pointing at the same target Clint had hit, his eyes on Clint and me. I gaped when I took in the arrow that was now split in half.

Holy shit he just shot the fucking arrow in half!

“Don’t be a show off Buck, come on everyone let’s get to work.”

Steve spoke before anyone else could get involved, making his way over to a weapons rack. Bruce didn’t attend the gun and hand to hand combat training so he wasn’t here right now, Thor also wasn’t around either because apparently his hammer was too powerful to be used indoors. Slowly everybody made their way to a booth with their weapon of choice, starting to go through their own drills and what not. I slowly walked down the line watching each other them, noting all the different styles of guns each of them had picked.

Nat told me as I passed that the guns she was handling were Glock 26’s, which to her were the best weapons because they were well balanced. She offered one for me to hold, it was lighter than it looked. I handed it back to her with a smile, taking a step towards Sam who informed you that Nat was talking bullshit and the MAC-10's were the best guns to use. He started to show off, not looking at the target but at you when firing. He hit the centre ring of the target but not the tiny black dot in the middle, patting his shoulder you moved to Tony who didn’t have a gun in his hand but had the hands of his suit on firing his thrusters. Figures, I guess he wouldn’t need a gun if he has his suit.

Steve wasn’t overly fond of guns, or so he told me but it was still useful to know how to shoot. Apparently Glock is the make for super heroes as he was using a Glock 17, just one though unlike the others who prefer duel wield. For someone who doesn’t like to use guns he seems very at ease with one, a natural really, was there anything he wasn’t good at?

Next stop was the one that I really wanted to watch, Clint and his bow! It was just breath-taking to watch, since I could remember I have always loved bows, I have even done some archery before and was pretty good before money got tight meaning I had to stop. I don’t know why I never started it up again, starting to regret that now. Missing the feeling of having a bow in my hands I got brave and asked the question.

“Can I have a go please?”

Clint looked round at my question, brows raised in question.

“Have you ever used a bow before?”

“Yeah I did archery for about 3 years when I was younger but had to stop, please I won’t hurt your pretty bow?”

I did my best pouty face hoping he would have pity on me and let me shoot, he smiled and stepped out of the booth handing me his bow and I yelped in excitement. Damn this was a beautiful bow, taking a moment to get the feel of the weight I notched an arrow in place. Pulling back the string a couple of times to readjust myself to the feel of it. My sight went to the target in front of me. I let out a breath, pulled the sting back, aimed and released. The arrow struck the middle circle but not dead centre, reminding me of Sam’s shot. Damn I will have to do better than that! Grabbing another arrow I let it fly quickly, then another, then another.

The 6th arrow hit home, dead centre, middle dot. I couldn’t contain the grin, twisting to Clint to see him watching me curiously.

“God I love bows! Can I get me one of these please?”

Clint took the bow back from my outstretched hands, putting an arm around my shoulders.

“I’ll find one for you, you and me will practice some more at some point okay?”

“Oh my days yes! I would absolutely love that!”

He retook his place from me in the booth as I move hesitantly to the final booth. Bucky doesn’t even look around from his target, he had some sort of machine gun looking thing.

“Hey Bucky.”

He stopped firing at my words, looking round at me before turning back a moment later to continue to fire. Sighing I just stood back and observed him open fire on the target. His precision was unparalleled, there were only a few holes in the sheet of paper where his bullets were hitting the exact same spot.

“What kind of gun is that?”

I decided to try and talk with him again, against my better judgement I move slightly closer to him. Abruptly he puts the gun down, muttering as he walks passed me.

“It’s a M249 Paratrooper SAW.”

Then he was gone.

Part 5                                                                            Part 7

Tags: @projectxhappiness

[bibliosexxual]

Pst hi I LOVE YOUR FICS you have no idea how much they give me life <3 <3 I came across this really cute (and frankly heartbreaking) AU: "[burgler gently wakes me] you live like this?" (stolen from a post I saw on fb) and I kinda just need Stiles to do everything he can to make Derek's life better? THANK YOU SO MUCH :D

It IS frankly heartbreaking… which means I’m totally into it.

(now also on AO3!)

***

Derek definitely went to sleep alone. He always does, these days. It doesn’t explain why he drifts awake in the middle of the night to the feeling of someone lightly poking his shoulder.

It’s probably not a good sign that when he opens his eyes and sees a gangly teenage boy in a red hoodie and grubby-looking black fingerless gloves standing over him, he doesn’t startle. His claws don’t come out; his eyes don’t flash. He just feels… resigned.

“You live like this?” the guy says, soft. Almost pitying. “I mean. You actually live here?”

That seems too obvious, not to mention too insulting, to merit a response. “What are you doing here?” Derek asks instead. His voice comes out low and rough. This is the first time in days he’s had any reason to say anything. “This is private property.”

The guy shifts on his feet and sticks his hands under his armpits uncomfortably. “Okay, straight to the awkward questions. I like that.”

Derek waits.

The guy sighs. “Look, I didn’t know this was your house. I mean… it is your house, right? You’re not just, I dunno, squatting here?”

Derek shakes his head.

“Okay,” the guy says. “So, um, sorry. I seriously thought this place had been abandoned years ago.”

Derek looks pointedly down at himself and then back up.

“Uh, yeah,” the guy mutters. “Obviously I was mistaken. We’ve established that. So… I found some stuff on YouTube on how to pick locks and— Wait, do you know what YouTube is? Do you go on the Internet, ever? Does your creepy haunted mansion come with wifi?”

Derek glares.

“Okay, never mind. Anyway. So I found these videos on lock-picking and I wanted to try it out, and I knew this place was abandoned—I mean, I thought I knew—and I was thinking it would be a victimless crime kind of thing, but then your door wasn’t even locked, and even if it had been, there are all these holes in the walls and all these windows with no glass in them anymore, and… Listen, you really shouldn’t live like this, dude. It’s not safe. Anybody could come in.”

“People like you, you mean,” Derek says. By this point he’s almost cautiously amused, but he keeps his face stern.

“No, people like… Bad people. Burglars.”

“You’re not a burglar?”

“No! Jesus, no. I’m just your average high school student.”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“Okay,” the guy revises, “so I’m just your not-quite-average high school student… who was kinda curious about breaking and entering. I’m going to be a detective someday; I need to know these things.” He holds up his hands, palms out. “Definitely no burgling in progress, though, I swear. Except, um. When I thought this place was abandoned, I was thinking about maybe taking a trophy so I could prove to Scott that I was here? But obviously I’m not going to do that now.”

“Thanks,” Derek says dryly.

The guy appears to miss the sarcasm. He nods like, You’re welcome, and goes on, “Anyway, you do need some home security, dude. I mean it. Theoretically, there could be burglars in the future.”

Derek shrugs. “There’s nothing worth stealing here.”

“Dude. You’re missing my point by, like, a mile.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, so he settles on another shrug.

There’s a bit of silence after that while Derek eyes this guy, curious. At first glance he’s nothing much to look at. Pale. Skinny. Baggy jeans. Brown eyes. Brown hair, buzzed short. Closer up, though, there’s something appealing in the long lines of his body, and something about his face that draws Derek in—the delicate curve of his mouth, maybe, or the intelligent gleam in his eyes, like he’s thinking about a hundred things at once.

Right now, it’s not too hard to guess what those hundred thoughts might be. He’s looking around with quiet horror at Derek’s bedroom. No doubt he’s taking in the bean bag chair Derek is using as a bed, the open suitcase on the floor that holds all of Derek’s spare clothes, and the far corner where there’s a hole in the ceiling—a small hole, though—and some weeds starting to grow up through the floorboards. It’s like this guy thinks he’s standing in a museum exhibit. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave.

“I’m guessing I don’t need to call the cops on you,” Derek says at last.

The guy winces, focusing back in on Derek. “Uh, yeah, it would be really cool of you if you could not do that. My dad would kill me. He’d arrest me and then he’d kill me.” Derek must look confused, because the guy clarifies, “I’m Stiles Stilinski? My dad’s the sheriff, Sheriff Stilinski? So he can do that. Arrest people. Except, you know, not me. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” Derek agrees, and this time he can’t quite hold back the little smile he can feel tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, so.” Stiles smiles back, a soft, private kind of smile, and takes a few steps toward the door. “Thanks for that. It’s very decent of you. So… I’ll just go now. Let you get back to sleep and all.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. This has been the most bizarre conversation he’s had in years, and he’s secretly a bit disappointed that it’s over. It’s probably not normal that when Stiles—who’s just finished breaking into Derek’s house—pauses in the doorway, Derek feels a little pleased about it.

“Hey,” Stiles says, “I mean it about the locks. Get some.”

Derek lies back on his bean bag chair after that and listens, mentally tracing Stiles’ progress. He goes back across the hallway and down the stairs, floorboards creaking under his every step, and opens the front door, which lets out a harsh, drawn-out groan under his hand. Then he’s clattering across the porch and crunching away through the underbrush, slamming a car door, cranking the engine, and driving away. It’s amazing he didn’t wake Derek up when he broke in earlier, Derek thinks with something bordering suspiciously on fondness. He’s far too noisy to ever be a burglar.

When he’s gone, the house feels a lot quieter than before, and very, very empty.

*

Derek’s not exactly surprised when this same guy knocks on his door bright and early Saturday morning, two days later. He could hear it as soon as Stiles’ Jeep turned off the main road a mile from Derek’s house and headed up into the Preserve, blasting Duran Duran, and he could hear it when Stiles parked right outside the house and hopped out, his heart racing.

So yeah, by the time Stiles knocks on the door, Derek has been expecting him for a while. On the other hand, he is surprised Stiles is bothering with knocking after what happened last time. He’s also not sure what Stiles is even doing here.

That becomes clear when he opens the door and Stiles cheerfully hefts a toolbox up for Derek to see. “I brought a new lock for your front door! And some nails and a bunch of spare wood to board up the holes in the wall and the windows. And a tarp for that hole in the roof. It’s just a temporary fix, of course, but it’s better than nothing.”

At first Derek is too stunned to speak. Finally, he asks, “Is this some kind of apology for breaking into my house? Because that’s really not necessary. If you really feel like you need to give me something, it could just be, I dunno, a coffee. You don’t have to—”

Stiles sighs so heavily it’s basically an interruption and starts unpacking his toolbox on the floor of Derek’s porch. “Yeah, I do have to, or I’ll never forgive myself when you get murdered.”

And, well, that’s unexpected. And weirdly touching. People normally take one look at Derek and seem to assume he’s the one about to be doing all the murdering and maiming.

“Also, I can do it,” Stiles adds. “I’m totally qualified. I read like fifteen different Wikipedia articles last night.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Oh, well, in that case.”

Stiles stands back up, determinedly wielding a hammer. “Dude, just let me do this. I’m not going to be able to stop worrying about it otherwise.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Derek says, because it’s true. People never worry about Derek, and it’s fine. Really. Derek is fine. He’s always fine.

Stiles huffs. “Okay, but I’m going to anyway, so. Are you going to step aside and let me fix your lock, or do I have to stand here and argue with you first? I’ll do it. I have a whole speech ready about Beacon Hills’ seedy criminal underbelly, and trust me, I know. I have a police scanner in my bedroom, and I know all the crime statistics for the past year at least.”

He’s obviously not going to give up without a fight, and honestly… Derek hasn’t been in a fighting mood for a long, long time. He sighs. “Fine. You can fix the lock. But only under my supervision, and only if you agree not to sue me if you accidentally nail your hand to the door.”

“Gotcha. I’ll just focus on nailing other things,” Stiles says with a wink.

Derek can’t believe the nerve of this guy. He’s weirdly charmed by it, but he glares anyway, on principle.

*

They finish with all of Stiles’ planned repairs by noon.

Stiles wipes his hands on his jeans, steps back from the house, and turns to look Derek up and down consideringly. And then he says, casual, like an afterthought, “You’re a werewolf, right?”

Derek has him pinned up against the wall a second later, unable to hold in a growl, his claws sinking into the soft cotton of Stiles’ hoodie. He should’ve known Stiles was too good to be true. He doesn’t smell supernatural, though. He doesn’t even smell like a hunter, or like magic, or—anything, really. Just plain old human, a little sweaty now after working on the house. It’s innocuous enough to raise Derek’s hackles.

Stiles swallows and brings his hands up to rest gently over Derek’s fists where they’re gripping Stiles’ shoulders. “Yep,” he says, “okay. I thought so.”

“How did you know?” Derek demands, speaking slowly around the fangs crowding his mouth. “And what do you want from me?”

“At this moment?” Stiles taps Derek’s knuckles. “For you to stop leaving holes in my favorite hoodie. That would be nice.”

With effort, Derek retracts his claws and takes a step back.

Stiles brushes down his clothes rather pointedly and says, “Thank you.”

Derek refuses to feel guilty. Stiles can’t just walk up to his house and accuse him of being a werewolf and not expect Derek to react. That’s not how the world works. “Explain,” he growls.

“Not much to explain. I’ve got werewolf friends. And once you know what to look for, it’s not exactly rocket science to identify you guys.“

“What are you going to do about it?” Derek asks, wary.

“I dunno. I guess that depends on you. Do you like going to the movies?”

Derek blinks, completely taken off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m getting some friends together,” Stiles says easily. “Werewolf friends included. We’re gonna see Fantastic Beasts this Friday night. You could come.”

Derek hasn’t been to the movies since before the fire. His family didn’t go often. The Hale house had a home theater in the basement, specially calibrated for sensitive werewolf eyes and ears. Still, he remembers liking it the few times he and his sisters did hit up the theater downtown. It was always an event. “I like movies,” he says now, cautiously.

Stiles beams and punches Derek’s arm lightly. It’s a brave move, considering Derek’s fangs are still out. “Awesome,” he says. “See you at seven, then.”

*

Derek shows up expecting maybe two or three people besides Stiles. Instead, Stiles has amassed a small army, or so it seems to Derek. Derek stops dead in intimidated surprise when he sees them all.

Stiles sees him standing there and amiably leads the whole herd his way, then starts in on introductions without a pause for breath. It’s too fast and furious for Derek to keep up—Boyd, Erica, Kira, Allison, Scott, Lydia, Danny… They all look friendly, at least. As crowds go, it’s not too intimidating. It relaxes him that he can tell at a whiff that some of them are fellow shapeshifters, just like Stiles promised.

During the movie, Stiles sits next to Derek and lets Derek share his popcorn. Afterwards he hangs back from the group, walking a little ways back with Derek as he absently kicks along a random pebble on the ground. It makes Derek a little nervous, wondering if Stiles is going to expect him to talk a lot. He doesn’t. Instead, he fills the silence easily for both of them with a long ramble about the movie. Derek read the Harry Potter books, most of them anyway, as they came out; he thought he knew plenty just from that. Not as much as Stiles, though. He can spout all sorts of trivia.

Stiles seems to be enjoying it, too, just having someone to listen to him. Still, Derek feels like he hasn’t been a lot of fun. He hasn’t cracked any jokes, or warmed up much to any of Stiles’ friends. It’s a surprise when they get to their cars and Stiles pauses by Derek’s, says they’re all going to head over to iHop now if Derek wants to join them.

Derek appreciates the thought, and the fact that Stiles doesn’t look judgey when he bows out. It’s been a lot of socializing for one night.

“Maybe next time, though,” Derek says, and means it. Stiles smiles like he can tell.

*

A couple weeks later, Stiles gives Derek a cell phone. "Don’t freak out about it,” he says, shoving his hands in his back pockets. “It’s not like I went out and bought you a brand new iPhone or anything. It’s just my old flip phone.”

“I can see that,” Derek says. He might live alone in the woods, but he’s not that out of the loop. He used to have a phone a lot like this, back in high school.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I was keeping it in the Jeep for emergencies, but then I figured this qualified as an emergency. It’s 2016. Who doesn’t have a phone in 2016?”

Derek assumes that’s rhetorical.

“I bought you a limited data plan, too. It was cheap. It’s not much, but you can text me sometimes, I mean, if you want. I put my number in there. It’s under ‘The Sex Bomb.’”

“Classy,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles grins. “That’s me, classing it up, all day every day.”

*

“Have you ever thought about… you know… not living in that house?” Stiles asks him one night, shifting sideways and kicking his feet up on the dashboard. They’re sitting in Stiles’ Jeep after another group movie night, eating burgers and fries—Stiles’ idea and Stiles’ treat. He treats Derek a lot. It’s like he thinks Derek doesn’t have any money.

Derek does have money, as a matter of fact, and not just from the insurance payouts. He has a job, part-time, at the greenhouse on the other side of town. It suits him. He gets to haul around bags of dirt all day and tend to the plants and not talk to people very much. It’s very zen.

So Derek does have money, and he’s determined to start treating Stiles for a change. Stiles doesn’t make it easy, though. He’s masterful at distracting Derek with chatter or a smile when it’s time to pay for things.

“Why wouldn’t I live in the house?” Derek asks now. “It’s mine.”

Stiles shoots him a look like, Who even are you? “Tell me this. Does your house even have electricity? Running water?”

“Yes. Of course it does.” There’s one working outlet in the kitchen. Derek uses it to run his mini-fridge and charge his flip phone. As for the running water, there’s a perfectly good stream right down the hill from the house.

Stiles looks doubtful. He slouches down a little lower in his seat, getting comfortable, and says, “Okay, but. You can’t tell me that’s your first choice of places to live.”

Derek shrugs. It was there, when he came back to Beacon Hills from New York. It was there, and it had been home his whole life, up until the fire, and he missed it. He’d camped out there on his first night back, and after that he just hadn’t had any compelling reason to leave. He’s a werewolf, after all. He could live in a cave if he had to.

“Can you, like… afford…?” Stiles starts, displaying an unusual level of tact and sensitivity.

“Yes,” Derek says shortly. He hates these moments where it almost seems like Stiles is pitying him. He’s not Stiles’ charity case. He can look out for himself. He was doing just fine before Stiles came along.

“Okay, well,” Stiles says, “at least promise me you’ll think about moving out.”

Derek grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything.

He does think about it, though. He starts looking at things like Stiles might, wondering what Stiles might think of this or that. He thinks about how it’s kind of cold, sometimes, bathing in the stream in the mornings. It’s kind of cold at night, too, when he’s curled up under his lone blanket on his bean bag chair. There’s a draft from somewhere, and sometimes he wakes up shivering. And it’s kind of lonely, too, waking up and not hearing anyone else around for miles. He didn’t used to think it was lonely, but now it’s different. Now he has something to contrast it with: all those evenings out with Stiles and his friends.

Maybe, even for a werewolf, this house isn’t as tolerable as he thought it was going to be. It’s annoying, but maybe Stiles was right. Maybe he should start thinking about moving out.

*

A week later, they’re all at In-N-Out after a bowling night. They go out together all the time, and Stiles keeps inviting Derek to come along. Derek even stays for the meals afterwards now, sometimes at least, and talks to Stiles’ friends.

When they’re all finished and just sitting around talking, Stiles leans back in the booth, stretches contentedly, and casually brings up Isaac Lahey. Derek doesn’t know Isaac as well as some of the others. He’s a freshman at the local community college, making him a little older than most of Stiles’ other friends, and he doesn’t always have time to come out with them, but when he does, he tends to be pretty quiet, like Derek.

Derek doesn’t get why Stiles is bringing him up now, at least not until Stiles says, “So I hear Isaac is looking for a roommate. Just, if anyone’s interested. Just throwing that out there.”

He isn’t looking at Derek in particular as he says it, but he nudges Derek’s calf under the table with his sneaker. Subtle he is not.

Isaac’s number is already programmed in the phone Stiles gave him. Stiles put everyone’s number in there, all his friends. All their friends now, Derek thinks tentatively. Derek stares at the number for half an hour when he gets home. Then he calls him.

The week after that, Derek moves into the spare room in Isaac’s apartment and takes his first hot shower in months. It’s bliss.

*

Stiles lets himself into their apartment all the time. He’s made himself a key; Derek doesn’t comment on it. He likes having Stiles around, likes watching him move and hearing him talk and having his scent in the apartment. He comes over a lot just to hang out, to watch TV with them on the couch or cook with Isaac or pester Derek to help him with his Spanish homework. Sometimes he drops by just to leave Derek things, like posters for the walls and DVDs and pizzas and fuzzy socks. Ambushing Derek with kindness and then disappearing off again.

Part of Derek likes it. It’s like having a pack again, albeit a small one, and it’s nice to be thought of.

Another part of him grits his teeth, because does Stiles still think Derek is so penniless and needy that he can’t even buy himself a pizza? Isaac has even jokingly started referring to Stiles as Derek’s sugar daddy, which is just so much no.

The more Stiles does it, the more Derek grits his teeth.

“I have a job,” he blurts one night when he catches Stiles mid-kindness-ambush. A jar of toffees, this time, because Derek mentioned a few days ago that he liked them.

“I… know?” Stiles says slowly, one hand on the doorknob. “You work at the Beacon Hills Plant Emporium.”

“Yeah, so, I have money.”

“I know,” Stiles says again. He lets go of the doorknob.

Derek deflates a little; he wasn’t expecting Stiles to know that. It doesn’t make sense for Stiles to know that. Stiles looks shifty. Deeper in the apartment, Derek can hear a door creaking—Isaac getting up from his nap. Derek crosses his arms and demands, “So why are you doing all this?”

Stiles blinks, all faux-innocence. He’s not very good at it. “Doing what?”

Derek ignores that. “Is this a pity thing? Like, ‘Poor Derek Hale whose earthly possessions all burned in a fire’?”

Stiles flails. “No! I mean, maybe at first it was, a little, but… no. I know you have money. It’s not— I’m not trying to suggest— Look, it’s because we’re friends, okay? We’re friends, and—”

“And he thinks you’re hot,” Isaac snickers, passing behind them on his way to the kitchen.

“—and,” Stiles goes on determinedly, as though he hasn’t heard, “every time I see you I just wanna do nice stuff for you.”

“He wants to do a lot of nice stuff to you, all right,” Isaac calls suggestively over his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Stiles calls after him, flipping him off. 

He’s blushing furiously. Derek feels like he probably is, too. He doesn’t know where to look. Fucking Isaac.

“Wow, okay. I’m just going to…” Stiles gestures awkwardly to the door behind him.

Derek nods, but Stiles doesn’t see it. He’s already in the hallway, door slamming shut behind him.

Well then.

Derek stands there for a moment, staring numbly at the blank expanse of the door and listening to the sound of Isaac microwaving something in the other room.

Then he goes after him. This isn’t the kind of thing he should just walk away from, or let Stiles just walk away from. It’s tempting to let him (Derek can still feel his face burning with embarrassment), but then again, it’s probably not going to be any less embarrassing three hours from now, or three days, so. Why put it off?

It’s pouring rain outside, thick sheets of water. Derek doesn’t want to go back for an umbrella, though. If he goes back inside, he might just wimp out and never come out again. So he pulls the hood of his jacket up over his head, takes a couple deep breaths, and jogs down the stairs to the parking lot.

Stiles hasn’t left. He hasn’t even turned on his Jeep yet. He’s just sitting there, banging his head repeatedly against the steering wheel.

Derek’s a bit concerned.

He walks over and knocks on the driver’s side window, and when Stiles rolls it down (after flailing and honking the horn), Derek doesn’t really know what comes next. There’s just the persistent thought that he shouldn’t let Stiles drive off like this, not when they’re on the brink of something here, and not when Derek’s been thinking about kissing him more or less since the night Stiles first broke into his house.

Stiles stares at him. His hair is a little wet, bangs dripping down into his eyes, but he’s nowhere near as soaked as Derek.

“Do you not own an umbrella?” Stiles frowns. “Or even a poncho?”

Instead of answering, Derek steps up on the Jeep’s running board, leaning his elbows on the sill, and kisses him through the open window. Stiles squeaks out an “Mmmph?” and then, “Mmm, yeah,” in a much more appreciative tone and grabs Derek by the ears to tilt his head to a better angle. They don’t stop until Derek starts to shiver, soaked through to the skin by the rain.

Stiles blinks at him, dazed, and then grins. “Do you wanna go on a date with me? With more kissing?”

Derek grins back. “Yes, but only if you let me pay.”

“I can do that,” Stiles says.

(end)