#lilredalpha

“I didn’t do anything! Danny, dude, personal space?”

“Looks like someone carved something into you then.” Danny finally lets go and steps away, grabbing his back and striding out of the locker room, tossing a “check the mirror, and your boyfriend” over his shoulder.

Stiles huffs his way over to the mirrors, twisting and turning once he’s in front of it and flushing bright red at the sight. There, in the small of his back, looking angry and red but obviously healing, is a small triskelion. And not the pretty spiral one Derek burned into his skin, no, a harsh, hard angled one.

Deucalion’s triskelion.

Stiles vaguely recalls the light scratch of an inhuman nail against his lower back as he melted into the comfort of Deucalion’s bed, slipping towards sleep quickly under the devastating combination of fantastic orgasms and Egyptian sheets. It’s that thought that propels him back to his bag, digging through everything in it to grab out his phone, punching at the contact and waiting angrily as it rings through.

Deuc’s voice, when he picks up, is vaguely amused and confidant, like he knows what Stiles is calling about.

Asshole.

“Stiles, darling. Isn’t it a bit early for you to be home? Don’t you have that silly sport practice?”

“It’s lacrosse, it’s all rough and angry, you’d like it if you actually gave it a-No!” Stiles actually pulls the phone away to glare at it, unsettled by how easily the wolf can get him off track, before pressing it back to his ear. “Do not distract me. Why did you carve a freaking triskele into my back?!”

“If I had carved it, you would have been calling me much sooner,” Deucalion counters easily. “Now I will admit that I scratched one into your skin. In preparation, of course. You should never get a tattoo without first knowing what it’s going to look like on skin.”

“I—I am not—listen, you—ugh!” Stiles slumps back against the lockers, rubbing a hand down his face as he tries to process everything Deuc just said/implied.

“I am not getting a tattoo. Remember, faints around needles? And we do not scratch things into people without permission!”

“You are mine.” Deuc’s voice takes on a hard edge that a year ago would have had Stiles pissing himself at the threat inherent.

Now? Now it makes little Stiles perk up and take notice.

Because fuck survival instinct, right?

“I know but—“

“And eventually my scent will not be enough. You’ll need a permanent mark on you to show people who you belong to. Be glad I’ll allow it there, to hide it from your father. Normally mates wear the symbol of their wolf on their wrist.”

Stiles huffs out a breath of frustration, ignoring the way such a blunt claim makes him go warm and gooey inside. There’s no point in discussing this with Deuc over the phone, his puppy eyes won’t work this way.

“We can talk about it when I get home, okay? The tattoo and the whole ‘where does it go’ thing.”

“Shower first.” There’s a click after the words and Stiles stares open-mouthed at the phone, the tone ringing tinny through the speakers.

Maybe this is one thing even his puppy eyes won’t get him out of.