So @the-calvaree was feeling shitty today so I told her I’d write her a fluffy little fic to cheer her up. Here it is, babe, I hope you like it :)
Derek was relaxing in bed, a good book in his hands, and a cup of hot chocolate on the side table next to him. He was in for the night, all nice and snuggled up and relaxed. He even felt himself nodding off a little, his head bobbing forward every so often, his eyes sliding shut.
Then the front door slammed shut, startling him and instantly making him fully alert.
He could hear Stiles stomping through the house, muttering unintelligibly to himself, seemingly mocking something someone else had said judging by his tone. Derek grabbed his bookmark, a picture of Stiles about to sneeze that Stiles had shoved in a book as a bookmark months ago that now served as Derek’s favourite bookmark of all time, and saved his spot. The book was placed on the floor, safely away from his half full mug of hot chocolate, and he waited.
Sure enough, Stiles came into the room, his jacket already gone, his shirt half unbuttoned and his tie caught somewhere around his ears from where he’d gotten frustrated with taking it off and just gave up. He stared at Derek for a moment. Derek in their nice comfy bed, Derek wearing one of his soft sweaters and all tucked into the blankets. Once he’d looked his fill, he let out a loud groan and fell forward to faceplant on the bed. His head ended up directly next to Derek’s stomach so Derek reached out and ran his fingers through his hair. The groan Stiles let out this time was one of pleasure and he wriggled over and up a bit so he was pressed right against Derek’s side but his head was now smushed into Derek’s chest.
“So Kerwin thinks he knows more about werewolves than me.” He complained after almost half an hour of Derek just running his fingers through his hair and massaging his neck. Derek snorted, shaking his head.
Since his bosses had found out that Stiles was part of a werewolf pack and had been fighting against hunters and supernatural creatures since he was 16 years old, he’d been moved to the FBI’s secret supernatural division. Stiles still called it the X-Files unit, even though they were actually just called a special task unit, which was possibly why his boss hated him.
“Like, he found out about the supernatural underbelly 2 years ago. This has been my life for 10. The only werewolves he’s met have been on the job. I’m in a pack. My best friend is our Alpha. My other best friend is a banshee. My fucking husband is a werewolf! How in the hell could he possibly know more than me?” He ranted, burying his face and Derek’s chest and letting out an annoyed scream.
Derek let out a murmur of solidarity, knowing he didn’t actually need to say anything, knowing that Stiles just needed to vent.
“And he’s so insufferable about it too. He told me to shut up when I was trying to tell him that the omega we’ve been tracking wasn’t actually an omega at all but a beta under the thrall of a ruthless alpha. He says he’s one hundred percent sure that it’s just an out of mind omega. The only thing that’s one hundred about him is how old he is.” He told him, snorting to himself and reaching up for a high five, which Derek obligingly gave him.
“You really think it’s a beta being forced to do the things it’s been doing by an alpha and not an omega?” Derek asked. Stiles sat up, looking him in the eyes.
“I can still remember what Scott looked like when Peter was trying to control him, I know that look. This poor guy is trying to fight it but the alpha’s pull on him must be majorly strong. I want to help him instead of trying to put him down but Kerwin won’t listen.” He told him. Derek nodded, pulling Stiles back in.
He could see why this had gotten him all tied up in knots, it felt personal to him. And Stiles hated it when other people couldn’t see through the whole ‘monster’ issue to see that there was an actual person underneath the fangs and fur. He still pictured people putting Scott down, putting Derek down, remembering what Kate Argent had done to Derek’s family. It was one of the reasons Derek was proud of him for what he was doing. He had the power to stop some of those things from happening, had already stopped some of those things happening, would do everything in his power to try to make sure none of those things would ever happen again.
“Hey, I have faith in you. I know you’re going to get to the real story. You’re going to save this guy. Hell, one day you’re going to have Kerwin’s job and you’re going to be one hundred times better at it than he could ever be.” He told him truthfully, reaching up to finally pull Stiles’s tie off of his head. Stiles grinned bashfully, somehow still able to be bashful about the things his husband said about him.
Stiles surged towards him, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss, knocking them both to the side. The side table wobbled and Derek’s hot chocolate sloshed over the side, right where his book would have been if he’d put it on the side table instead of the ground. That was how well he knew his husband, he’d known something like that would happen.
“Stop being so sweet. I married you because you’re an asshole like me, not because you’re sweet.” Stiles told him, unconvincingly, when he finally pulled back for air. Derek snorted, tugging him in close again to rest his head back on his chest, his hands running through his hair again.
“No, you married me because of my ass. Pretty sure that’s what you’ve told me. Multiple times before.” He joked. Stiles snorted, finally shrugging his shirt off and wriggling out of his pants before sliding under the covers to join his husband. He reached down to grab said ass, squeezing it happily.
“I will admit; it was definitely a factor.” He agreed, squeezing one more time before settling on Derek’s chest again. He’d had such a shitty day, all he wanted was to cuddle up with his husband and for Derek to keep playing with his hair.
That lasted about an hour before Stiles started fidgeting, his eyes continually sliding to his laptop where it was sitting on the little desk in the corner. Derek chuckled, pulling him up for one more kiss and then pushed him away. “Go.” He told him, pushing him again. “You’re not going to really feel better until you’ve researched the shit out of this.” He added.
Stiles lingered for a moment more before jumping out of the bed, darting back in to kiss Derek and then going to grab his laptop. Once the laptop was in his hands he paused again, looking back at his husband. “You’re sure?” He asked, wanting to make sure he didn’t think he was overworking himself. He knew that Derek, his dad and Scott all had a pact to make sure he didn’t go overboard with things and wanted to make sure he really was fine with it.
“Hey, I’m fine. I’ve got my book. I’ve got my legs to kick you if it gets too late. Go. Help this guy.” He assured him, reaching over the side of the bed to pick up his book again and holding it up as evidence.
Stiles grinned, darting in for one more kiss. “No, this is why I married you.” He told him and then made himself comfortable at the desk, getting to work immediately.
Derek pretended to focus on his book but in reality all he was doing was grinning at the picture of Stiles sneezing, listening to his husband clacking away at the keys of the laptop and muttering to himself. He knew he’d get to the bottom of this, that he’d help this guy whether he was an omega or beta and show up his boss doing it.
Sitting in bed, pretending to read while listening to Stiles on his laptop he couldn’t help but think ‘yeah, this is where I’m meant to be’.
I have no idea what ship or ships you're using for the soft dominant prompts, but I love your writing/fics that much, I don't even care.
They’re from Mass Effect: Andromeda! It’s a video game and I have fallen into the sin pit that is the fandom and I am loving it. Glad to see you’re liking it too! Let’s be real, you don’t even need to know about the characters to enjoy some porn :D
So I wrote a few thousand of this one night like just a week or so after I was sent this and like an idiot didn’t copy it into a word doc before trying to post, so of course tumblr did the dumb thing of logging me out for some reason and only letting me know when I tried to post.
This made me frustrated because it was so good and now I had to start all OVER AGAIN UGH. So. I avoided it for another month or two because I had to get enough of what I had wrote out of my head so I wouldn’t be like “no this is wrong” as I tried to recreate it.
Anyway, felawnie asked for me to make this about my OCs, out of curiosity. No one but me and my Wife Across the Sea will probably care that much, but you know, it’s fun.
This prompt also made me consider some major plot shifting that actually worked out some kinks I was having with figuring out the story in the first place, so props!
Some very very basic, still in the creation process, details: Hounds = shapeshifting beings with an ability to teleport with limits, and the ability to create - let’s call them soul bonds with other individuals. Fantasy world. Magic is a thing (clearly). This is all still pretty much in the finangling details process, so you know. Stuff could and probably will change lol.
Alright, take two.
89: “What the hell did you just say to me?”
---
Harlem was well aware that his suspicion of people edged a little more into paranoia than might be healthy. He didn’t need others pointing it out to him to know that. He’d known it for a while. Zech called it things like trauma and defense mechanism and trust issues - which maybe wasn’t wrong. Harlem figured it was just the way he was after everything, and probably not the worst side effect of how fucked up he was. There was worse things to be than mistrustful of most people.
The point was - Harlem was one of the more suspicious Hounds here. He wasn’t as trusting as Chaos, the youngest of his bond-brothers, who still managed to see the good in people. Possible from his time with the traveling performers he’d ended up with after escaping the Mages who had him, who’d tried to make him fight in the Games. Sometimes it made Harlem’s skin crawl, how easily Chaos could trust near-strangers, how friendly he was with people he barely knew.
Maverick was usually the reasonable one between the three of them. He was wary, but fair. Willing to listen and give a chance, but not to necessarily give his trust right away. Usually, Maverick could be depended on to be level-headed.
Except he was being an idiot this time.
“I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you not trust him.”
He glanced over his shoulder. Zech didn’t look up from the book he was reading, something about seaside medicinal plants or whatever. Chaos had gotten it for him, from one of the performers he’d lived with for years. He narrowed his eyes, but Zech just kept reading, calm, seemingly distracted.
“I do trust him,” Harlem grumbled, looking back across the room. “I just don’t trust her.”
Maverick and Kiana were standing at one of the walls, half turned towards each other instead of the map. They were arguing, though Harlem wasn’t sure how seriously. Maverick seemed more bemused than anything, while Kiana of course was annoyed mostly, though in a far softer way than she was with anyone else here.
Zech hummed. Harlem shot him another narrow-eyed look. That was Zech’s skeptical ‘uh huh sure’ hum.
He glanced up, caught Harlem’s eyes, and smiled a bit fondly. “Maverick can take care of himself. Kiana’s not much of a fighter.”
Harlem scoffed, coming over to sit on the table bench beside Zech. “I’m not worried she’s doing to harm him. I’m worried she’s doing to hurt him. It’s different,” he muttered, casting another glance across the room as Mav laughed. “He’s not being careful.”
Zech was watching him - Harlem could just see it out the corner of his eyes, that steady gaze, the slight lines between his brows as he gave something thought. Zech closed the book, slipping a marker between the pages before he set it aside.
“You can’t control the choices he makes, babe. Maybe he shouldn’t trust her, maybe he is being reckless. Maybe she will end up hurting him. All you can do is have his back.”
“I do,” Harlem insisted. He swallowed heavily. “I just - he’s been hurt enough. He’s been through enough.”
“You all have.” Zech reached out, brushing his cheek, then reached down to grab Harlem’s hand. He linked their fingers. “He knows you've got his back, Harlem. So even if Kiana ends up hurting him, he’s going to be okay.”
“She thinks we’re monsters,” Harlem said bitterly. “Hardly better than feral beasts. She only came to us because she was desperate, and she’s made no effort to hide that. But he just ignores that, and I don’t get….”
“People sometimes make reckless choices, take risks, when they feel something for someone,” Zech said slowly.
Harlem shook his head. Mav didn’t do this kind of thing. In all the time Harlem had known him - and that was most of their fucking lives - Mav hadn’t been interested in people like that. And then little miss Otherworlder showed up and gave him big watery eyes and desperate pleas and Maverick was suddenly being all - all… soft and….
“You going to try to tell me you didn’t act a bit out of character, with me?” Zech sounded amused, voice soft and fond. “Your brothers thought I’d done some kind of spell on you.”
Harlem couldn’t help the smirk and snort of laughter. It’d taken more work than he’d expected at the time to make them believe that Harlem really was in love with Zech, no tricks, no magic, no force. They’d come around.
“It was different, though. You earned my trust,” he pointed out. And Zech had - he’d done nothing but help Harlem, when he’d had no reason to, and then he’d put himself between Harlem and danger at risk to himself more than once…. He’d treated Harlem like a person, from the very start. Never like some mindless animal.
What else was Harlem supposed to do but trust him? And from there, it’d been a short trip to realizing that he felt more than simple, platonic affection for him.
Zech sighed, but his smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Harlem fucking loved those wrinkles, soft creases that showed how much Zech’s face was made for smiling, that drew attention to his eyes - with the thick lashes and the darkest shade of blue Harlem had ever seen.
“Everyone here is keeping watch on her,” he finally said. “No one fully trusts her, not even Maverick. If she does try something, plenty of us here would put a stop to it. You’re not alone anymore.”
Harlem swallowed, looking away. It still felt surreal - that they were in this place, building a community of others like them, others who had escaped the Mages, who had no where else to go now. The Otherworld Hounds wanted nothing to do with them, it wasn’t safe in the Shadows where the Mages lived and were the most powerful.
It was hard, to break the habits of what felt like a lifetime. To trust others, not just his bond-brothers, not just Zech. To believe that it wasn’t just them against the rest of the world.
Zech lifted Harlem’s hand, brushing a kiss over the back of it, eyes soft with sympathy and a kind of tenderness that still made Harlem ache with it.
He didn’t know what he’d ever done to deserve finding Zech. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve having his love and loyalty and support, unflinching and steadfast. But fuck if Harlem wasn’t going to take it, and give all of himself in return.
Even if it felt like a poor repayment, like Zech was getting the short end of the deal. Zech had made it clear, many times, that he didn’t see it that way or feel that was the case. (Zech had more words to throw around about that, trauma and self worth and more besides.)
“I love you,” he muttered, leaning in. Zech smiled wider, leaning in and meeting him, murmuring the words back right against Harlem’s lips.
A throat cleared, and Harlem pulled back - as much as he could, at least, because Zech’s hand seemed determined to stay curled around the back of his neck, warm and grounding - to see Sunny watching them with a raised brow.
“Getting a group together to head out on another search,” she said, pushing up off of the support beam she’d been leaning against.
“Who’s all going?”
Sunny tilted her head towards the main doors. A small group of Hounds were there - Viper and Whiz watching Kam and one of the other younger Hounds that had shown up a few months ago tussle. “Them, probably. Ghost’s getting another group together for a different possible lead.” She narrowed her eyes, looking at him assessingly. “You good to join this time?”
Harlem grimaced, glancing sideways at Zech. Zech gave him a flat look, slowly raising his brow.
“Ah, no.”
“Damn right you’re not,” Zech muttered.
Sunny’s frown grew, for a moment, before she nodded. She reached out, giving a quick ruffle to Harlem’s hair that he couldn’t quite duck away from fast enough. “Maybe next time then, pup.”
Harlem rolled his eyes - he was hardly a pup anymore - and was about to snark back when Kiana’s voice cut in, cold and vicious.
“Seriously? You’re just staying behind again?”
Zech looked at her, eyes narrowed. Harlem kept his on Sunny instead, flexing his fingers carefully against the urge to let out his claws.
“I’m still recovering,” he said carefully polite, carefully not angry. He wanted to bare his fangs at her. “Maybe next time.”
“Sure,” she scoffed. “My brother is having Gods knows what done to him,” she said, voice cracking. Harlem swallowed. “And you’re just going to sit here and do nothing.”
Sunny was glancing between Harlem and Kiana, eyes narrowed slightly.
Zech was dangerously still next to him.
Taking a deep breath, Harlem got to his feet, turning to leave.
“I know you don’t like me,” Kiana hissed. When Harlem kept walking, she loudly muttered, “Didn’t think you were so heartless as to let a pup be turned into the same thing you are.”
Harlem snapped around, baring his fangs at her with a snarl. She snarled back, not backing down a bit. Zech was right at his back, not quite looming. His presence was steadying, reassuring. Almost everyone in the community underestimated how dangerous Zech was, but Harlem knew. Zech was one of the most dangerous people in the room.
The others nearby in the community hall had gathered around them, watching.
“What the hell did you just say to me?” Harlem snapped, teeth grinding together.
“You heard me.”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he said. “You think we’re all just feral, dangerous beasts. Just like all the other Otherworld Hounds - but don’t go accusing me of being heartless when it’s your people that turned their backs on all of us. They turned their backs on your brother too, the moment he was taken. We, more than anyone, have reason to fear the Mages. And yet here we fucking are, huh, all risking our own hard-earned fucking freedom on the chance that we can spare a kid what we’ve suffered.”
Zech put a hand low on his back, reassuring. He eased even closer, and said in that calm way that meant trouble for anyone that knew to listen for it, “You’re crossing a line. You’re hurting, and scared, and I understand that. But don’t lash out at the ones doing all they can to help you. Not everyone’s going to always be so patient and understanding about that.”
Kiana glared at them, arms crossed tightly - almost hugging herself. “I’m not wrong - he hates me.”
“Fuck you,” Harlem sneered. “I don’t hate you - I think you’re selfish, and I don’t trust you. But I’m still going to help find your brother, because I’m not actually the monster you think I am.”
He glanced past her, as Maverick came over, frowning. His eyes darted to Kiana, then to Harlem. There was a twist to his face - frustration and apology. Harlem gave a slight shake of his head, because it was hardly Mav’s fault Kiana was spoiled and hurting and hateful.
It wasn’t Mav’s fault she’d decided to throw most of that at Harlem.
Before Kiana could say anything else, Maverick spoke up, and it hushed all the whispers of the Hounds around them watching and eavesdropping.
“That’s enough.” He glanced at Sunny. “Take your group, be careful. The Mages are going to catch on sooner or later to what we’re doing. Harlem, please, go rest - you need it.” He didn’t say anything to Kiana. He walked past her, brushing a hand over Harlem’s shoulder as he went.
Harlem turned to leave. Zech didn’t follow, not right away. He caught up with Harlem about halfway to their home, slipping an arm around Harlem and bringing him to a stop. He came around, pulling Harlem forward against his chest, and pressed a kiss to the side of his head.
“She’s wrong.”
“I’d help if I fucking-”
“I know,” Zech interrupted. “But you’re of no help until you finish recovering. You can’t give from an empty cup, babe.”
“I hate it,” Harlem admitted. “I hate feeling useless.”
“I know.” He rubbed Harlem’s back once. “I know, Harlem.”
“That pup - the, the Mages….”
“We’ll find him. We’ll get him out.”
“I was younger than him when he….” He couldn’t say it, the words clogging up in his throat and panic starting to fizz through his blood, gathering in his fingers and his chest.
“And if that Mage wasn’t already dead, he would be shortly. And if whatever fucker has that kid now does anything like that to him, you and I will both make sure he also ends up dead.”
He pressed his forehead into Zech’s shoulder, hard. Zech’s fingers scratched through his hair.
“And if Kiana thinks she can use you as her emotional punching bag again, I’ll set her shit on fire.”
Zech snorted, loosening his grip enough that Harlem could twist around and glare at Chaos. Chaos just grinned, hands in his pockets, and shrugged hugely.
“No one would actually stop me, you know. It’s not like I’d get in trouble for it.”
“Not from me, at least,” Zech agreed. “I’ll even help give an alibi if I have to.”
Harlem rolled his eyes, shrugging out from Zech’s loose hold and taking a few steps away. “You two are fucking ridiculous.”
“Eh, you love us anyway. I mean, differently - obviously. But whatever.” Chaos came over, slinging an arm around Harlem’s shoulders. “While Maverick’s off being painfully diplomatic and leader-y, I thought I’d come see if you would like to spar, get some of that itch out.” He glanced over at Zech. “He is good to spar at least, yeah?”
Zech glanced at Harlem, briefly, before saying, “Should be, yeah.”
Harlem sighed, put upon (but all three of them knew he wasn’t, not really). “Whatever, if it’ll keep you out of more trouble.”
Chaos just grinned and started pulling Harlem along, Zech following not too far behind. “Honestly, you should be worrying about your medic there more than me. He’s the one that was threatening Kiana.”
Harlem shot Zech a look over his shoulder; Zech just stared back entirely unapologetic.
“I thought it was only fair she knew. I’m not in the habit of letting people just talk shit about you.”
Harlem couldn’t help it. He smiled, stopping and turning out of Chaos’ grip, grabbing Zech and tugging him in for a kiss.
I have happily dragged my wife into hockey even if she’s not really seen a game and even better I have dragged her into groaning and sighing over players with me and it is a true source of joy tbh. Every time I see she’s reblogged a hockey post I just smile all smug and happy because yeah. Yes.
Now Wife you just need to visit while hockey season is going and I’ll drag us to a hockey game.
A chance to have a prompt written by a goddess?? Yes please! I shall take 78 with Stoyd please and thank.
Me: *shows up with this fic for my wife forever later, sipping on a milkshake* Oops? You still love me, right?
78. “You weren’t supposed to hearthat.”
—-
Boyd laid with his head in Erica’s lap, letting her scratch her fingers over his scalp in a repetitive, soothing motion. His chest burned as it healed, slowly, and breathing wasn’t the easiest thing at the moment. His head ached, too, from whatever the witch had done with that blue powder - and it wasn’t helped by Scott and Derek arguing on the other side of the room.
Isaac reappeared from the bathroom, crouching down next to the couch and carefully running a damp cloth over Boyd’s wounds. He couldn’t help the slight growl, baring his teeth, but quieted at Isaac’s soft whine of sympathy-apology and Erica’s own small growl. It wasn’t their fault that the cloth caught at the edges of the wounds, that everything felt amplified and extra painful.
He relaxed even more at the sound of a heartbeat in the hall, and then at the door slamming open so hard it bounced off the wall forcefully. Scott yelped Stiles’ name - had he really not heard him stomping up to the door? - and Derek just sighed loudly (but his scent went bitter-sour, guilt and relief an unpleasant mix).
Stiles gently pushed Isaac aside, eyes darting over Boyd critically, reaching out to hold Boyd’s chin and keep him still. Boyd didn’t mind the manhandling, not from Stiles. Didn’t mind the pain if it was because Stiles was gently prodding the edges of the wounds, dragging his finger over an edge with a deep frown. It hurt, so bad, but Boyd’s trust in Stiles was deep enough that it barely registered. If Stiles was hurting him, it was for a reason.
Stiles looked up at Erica and said something, questioning. She replied, voice terse and tight. Boyd blinked, tried for a moment to focus the words into something that was more than noise and tone, and then gave up when it made his head hurt more.
Stiles looked back down at him, a soft, slightly unsteady smile on his face. He said something - so soft and tender that Boyd leaned into the hand still lightly holding him by the chin, letting his eyes close.
Stiles spoke some more - tone sharp, almost bossy, but no one complained (Boyd forced his eyes back open to make sure no one was silently threatening Stiles, either). Derek left, Scott and Isaac left, and then Erica slid out from under him with careful movement and soothing noises, squeezed Stiles’ shoulder, and went into the kitchen. Stiles stayed crouched by the side of the couch, gently brushing the backs of his knuckles over Boyd’s cheek.
He murmured stuff - quiet and soothing, with just a touch of magic in them - and Boyd’s eyes drifted shut, lulled by Stiles’ tone and words and repetitive touches. The pain in his head and chest grew numb and distant and he floated, easy and peaceful, for what felt like no time at all.
Until the pain flared, harsher than before. He arched, gasping, whining and snarling in turns, twisting but being held down. There were voices - maybe familiar, if he could focus past the pain - and hands pressing over his chest, against the wounds, pushing something into them that was like cold fire, and he cried out-
Then, endlessly later, it stopped.
Boyd slumped down, curling away from the hands that had been touching and holding, away from the voices. Magic worked through the air, a familiar smell, and he fell back into nothingness.
“-do it again, I dare you.”
Boyd became distantly aware of the sounds around him, the scent of fury-magic-danger, of the emptiness of the space around him and the vulnerability he was feeling physically.
“No, you listen. This is my town. This is my pack. And that was my boyfriend. So if you fuck with them, if you even think about trying that torture shit on him again, I will fucking make your life miserable on every single front possible - and I’ve got connections on the federal level, so it won’t just be magical fuckery. You have three hours to get as far from here as possible, because if I even catch the slightest hint that you’re still around, or thinking of coming after them again, I’ll come after you so fast you’ll not have time to even start to scream.”
Boyd forced his eyes open, though they didn’t seem to be able to focus.
“I beat a fucking nogitsune, I am not even the slightest bit intimidated by your wicked witch routine.”
He twisted, though everything felt like a deep ache and it made him feel unduly tired. Stiles was standing at the large windows, on the phone, shoulders tight and sparks dancing along the knife he was spinning between his fingers. Boyd frowned, because he was pretty sure that was one of those weird magic ritual type of knifes Deaton had given to Stiles when he hit a certain point in power level and skill. Stiles didn’t use them if he could avoid it - said that using something that negatively-intended could only bring so much good, and always some bad. That they were “chancey”.
“Why don’t we make it two hours, hm?” Stiles snapped. The knife went still. “I’m going to give you two hours to run, and if you’re not far enough by then, you are going to feel what I’ve got planned for you.” He smirked, pulled his phone away and ended the call. Boyd watched him slump, dragging fingers through his hair and looking at the knife in his hand.
His mouth and tongue didn’t want to work properly, so Boyd made a questioning, worried noise.
Stiles whipped around. “You’re awake!” Eyes wide, he quickly stashed the knife out of sight.
Boyd frowned at him.
Stiles shifted his weight guiltily. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
Boyd scoffed, rolling his eyes, and lifted an arm in invitation.
Stiles immediately came over, climbing onto the couch with him, pressing tightly close. “You scared me. I wasn’t sure if the restorative I made was going to be strong enough, and the pain of counteracting what she did has apparently sometimes actually just straight up killed people or damaged them worse, and you’ve been out for six hours, and-“
Boyd nuzzled his hair, dropped a kiss on his forehead. Closed his eyes and sighed heavily.
“Sleep,” Stiles ordered, all bossy and frowning. “All that magic took a lot out of you. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Boyd peeled one eye open to peer at Stiles suspiciously.
“Erica’s keeping a distant eye on the witch with Allison’s help. I’ve given them some stuff in case she notices and tries anything. But hopefully she’s not a complete moron and books it like I told her to.”
Boyd grunted, wrapping his arm further around Stiles.
Stiles pressed his forehead into Boyd’s neck. “It’s going to be fine,” he repeated.
Boyd slipped the knife out of Stiles’ back pocket and tossed it noisily across the room. Then he tightened his grip pointedly around Stiles and used what strength he had left to twist, pinning Stiles between him and the back of the couch.
Stiles heaved a sigh, slipping a hand up to cup Boyd’s jaw, thumb stroking slow and firm. “Okay. Okay big guy. Just rest for me, please.”
Boyd hummed, tucking his nose alongside Stiles’ hair, and let the scent and feel of Stiles with him lull him back to sleep.
