watch Scotty make a Bloody Mary, and swear a bit.
my friend made this for me to cheer me up
needless to say she succeeded
“I’m pretty sure he’s gonna kill us once the spell will wear off,” Scott mumbles. Still, he doesn’t hesitate even for a second before snapping a photo.
Stiles snorts for the tenth time in the last minute. “I swear to God it’ll be worth it,” he says, a huge grin curling his lips as he holds Derek’s small body in the air. “Just look at him. This is the closest thing to perfection I’ve ever seen.”
Scott cackles and takes another picture, because fuck him if Stiles isn’t right.
From where Stiles is holding him, Derek mewls as if he regrets all of his life choices. Which he kind of should, since they’ve brought him in front of a witch who thought it’d be funny to turn him into a cat. Derek’s karma is such a bitch.
“Aww, don’t worry, buddy,” Stiles coos, pulling Derek’s small, totally soft body against his chest and slipping the small Santa hat off of him, “you’ll be like new tomorrow.” He scratches Derek’s head, right between his ears, and smiles widely when is rewarded by a not-so-stealthy purr.
When, after another hour, Scott leaves Stiles’ house, Derek curls over Stiles’ stomach, kneading it for a while - and totally clawing at it because, well, small revenges - before settling down and resting his head right over Stiles’ navel. ”Sure, go ahead, make a pillow out of me,” Stiles complains, thought his hand won’t stop petting Derek’s soft fur.
Derek’s left ear twitches in reply and the purring sound rising from his chest gets louder. The little shit.
Stiles spends a few more minutes staring at Derek’s long whiskers, at how his fur just gets darker around his eyes in a way that absolutely resembles Derek’ human eyebrows. After all, napping doesn’t seem such a bad idea anymore.
Probably tomorrow Derek will bite Stiles’ heads off and hide his mangled body somewhere deep in the forest but, at least for today, Stiles will let himself believe that this weird closeness, this contentment, could maybe lead somewhere safe. “Just don’t poop into my shoes,” he murmurs as his eyes fall shut.
Bless witches and their freaky spells.
I don’t really have an explanation except I like puns.
“Excuse me?” Stiles splutters. “I can fly, okay? I can soar. With my mind.”
“Um, I’m not sure that counts?” Scott blinks. Then, seeing Stiles’s scowl, he quickly says, “I mean, it counts! It totally counts. Flights of the imagination are, um - ”
“Pointless.” That’s Derek Quale, black-feathered angst-bird of yore, who probably thinks the night sky is an endless abyss of existential nothingness, and to whom spring must seem like a cruel trick of the gods, rather than a happy season of mating and egg-laying. Sure, Derek’s nest burned down in a forest-fire, once, but -
But that doesn’t make everything pointless. “Fuck you,” Stiles says, sticking his beak out so that it tilts upward, sharp and long and (he hopes) intimidating as a rapier. Stiles likes to imagine himself as a musketeer, sometimes. It helps. With the whole… grounded situation. “You think adorable baby chicks are pointless. Me? I’m gonna marry Lydia Martin and build a nest with her and have lots and lots of beautiful kids. Into whose throat I will regurgitate my daily catch of food.” Stiles beams, brightly. “I’m good at regurgitating. I’ve been practicing.”
“That’s an eating disorder,” says Derek, darkly, and Stiles frowns.
“Is not.” Stiles glares at him.
“Er, Stiles?” Scott hesitates, like he’s the bearer of bad news. “I don’t think martins and kiwis can - ”
“Shut. Up,” says Stiles, blissfully. “Don’t rain on my paraaaaade. And if you tell me kiwis can’t sing Barbara Streisand, either, I’ll just have to disown you as my best friend.”
“Quails do,” says Derek, out of nowhere.
“Mate for life.”
“Right.” Stiles stares at him. “How is that relevant? To this conversation? Exactly?”
Derek’s feathers fluff up; his shoulders hunch; his red eyes narrow. “Never mind,” he snaps, and flaps away.
“What the hell?” Stiles asks the air where Derek had been standing. “What was that about?”
Scott rubs his forehead with his wing. “I don’t wanna know. I really, really don’t wanna know.”
teen wolf gangnam style