NO KICKED PUPPY.

“mi corazón.”

a whisper, just the barest hint above the sound of his breathing. derek will hear it.

“mi corazón, mi amor, mi vida. wake up. we have places to be. vacation time, remember?”

he leans over to kiss derek’s bare shoulder, then opens his mouth and bites down lightly, playfully.

“mi corazón–”

lips parting from derek’s just long enough to say two words, marcos forgets it and instead pulls derek forward, down, onto the bed with him, their lips still pressed together. he doesn’t want anything more than what derek’s willing to give, and he doesn’t care if he gets nothing but this moment. (just give him this, at least. let him sear this moment onto his heart, let him never forget it. when did he become such a romantic?) hands holding derek’s face, still, thumbs brushing against the man’s rough stubble, finally move to rest one on the other’s heart, one on his shoulder. the solid, quick beats of derek’s heart ground him finally, completely, totally. he’s home.

“nunca te vayas.”

IT’S  PROBABLY  LESS  ROMANTIC  were  he  to  admit  that  he’s  just  out  of  words,   out  of  breath,   out  of  practice.   how  long  has  it  been  since  he  truly  cared  for  someone,   since  someone  truly  cared  for  him  back  with     no  strings  attached,   no  advantage  of  his     looks     or  his  desperation   ?     (     ten  years,   but  who’s  counting   ?     )  

NOT  QUITE  A  MIRACLE,   just     foreign     and  bittersweet,   and  he’s  not  entirely  sure  what  to  do  with  his  mouth  or  his  hands.   he  tries  to  match  marcos,   disciplined  motions  that  are  so  goddamned  soft  the  mere     capability     of  himself  to  mimic  them  is     astounding.     (     shouldn’t  there  be     fireworks,   or  something   ?   he  just  feels     numb,   save  for  the  fact  that  his  heart’s  about  to  beat  right  out  of  his  chest  and  his  stomach’s  in  knots.   he’ll  blame  that  on  the     adrenaline.     ) 

FORWARD,   DOWN,   STILL  LOCKED.   there’s  the  barest  sound  of  surprise   !   in  his  throat  as  they  sit,   as  marcos  shifts  the  hands  cupping  his  face  to  his  shoulder,   to  his  heart.     (     mi  corazón.   my  heart.   there’s  a  lot  of  hearts  here  that  aren’t  in  anyone’s  mouths,   and  he  doesn’t  know  how  to  work  with  that.     ) 

never  go.

“–fue un sueño, pensé que te había perdido.”

he wants to kiss him, he wants to kiss derek so bad that his stomach hurts from it. (he’s nervous? after everything?) but he doesn’t, instead pressing his forehead against the scrunched skin of derek’s own. he’s alive. they’re alive.

“por favor, quédate conmigo. por favor.”

he doesn’t say he needs him, but if that isn’t evident, nothing ever will be. he needs derek like he needs to breathe. (by that rule, he especially needs him now.)

THE  DRUID’S  FINGERS  ‘ROUND  HIS  ARMS  are  so  much  like  a  vise  that  he’s  surprised  at  it,   at  how  much  it     hurts.   he  exhales  a  huff   !   through  the  flare  of  his  nostrils,   petulant,   weak  even  in  this  most  bestial,   most  primal  form.     (     how  are  you  supposed  to  protect  anyone   ?   oh,   yeah.   you’ve  never  been  very  good  at  that.     ) 

it  was  a  dream.   i  thought  i’d  lost  you.

QUAKING  TOUCH  TO  THE  PLANES  OF  his  cheeks  that  he  blinks  around,   cants  his  head  just  so  that  the  barest  press  of  fingertips  becomes  fledged  palms  cupping.   marcos  leans  inward,   head  to  head,   bridges  of  noses  bunting,   and  the  breaths  against  the  line  of  his  mouth  are  a  welcome  relief  from  the  wither  of  his  lungs  around  his  own  disciplined  respiration.     (     he  wants  to  kiss  marcos,   too.     ) 

please,   stay  with  me.   please.

HIS  EYES  FALL  CLOSED,   MUSCLES  RELAX,   and  he  slowly  but  surely  returns  to  a  state  of  recognizable  humanity.   nobody  ever  tells  you  that  when  you  imprint,   you  have  to  lay  your  old  anchor  to  rest  and  learn  how  to  live  with  a  new  one.     (     i  thought  i’d  lost  you.     )     you  have  to  learn  how  to  live  because  somebody  else  finally  wants  you  to.     (     please,   stay  with  me.     )     you  have  to  learn  how  to  live  without  being     afraid.

“well…”

derek’s not wrong, but he’s also really, really wrong. lots of things have happened in one night. scott got bit in one night. peter got burned alive in one night.

derek imprinted on him in one night.

but he can’t force derek to stay. (no matter how much he wants him to, how much the idea of sleeping next to him makes his heart feel like it’s ready to float out of his body.) marcos feels wrong letting him go just like that, without doing something. (without giving him a goodnight kiss or something) either way, he settles further into his bed, pulling the blankets up to his chest.

“i’ll, uh– i’ll call you if i need anythin’, or– you’ll know. goodnight.”

god, he’s so bad with this kinda stuff. couldn’t he just ask derek to stay, even if he didn’t cuddle with him? that would be at least a hundred times better than spending the night alone. alone is the last thing he wants to be, especially when the nightmares creep in like the roots of the nemeton. they pull derek down, down, his claws in the dirt, he’s screaming for marcos, but he can’t move. he can’t move and he can’t breathe as derek swallows dirt, lungs clogged with the mud and the rot of the dead tree. the roots feel like hands, like clawed hands pulling and pulling, no matter how derek calls for him. he’s suffocating, derek’s suffocating, and he’s standing still.

his own screams wake him. his eyes are wet and hot, blinding him for a moment so he doesn’t see the shadow in his room. his hands push him up and back against the wall, as if still trying to push him out of the nightmare, out of the hole in the ground. breathe, breathe– the air hurts his lungs with how hard he inhales, but it feels good. derek. he needs to call derek. when he reaches out for his phone, he spots the dark shape moving forward, and the inhaled breath finally exhales.

“mi corazón, mi alma–”

DRAW  A  MONSTER.   WHY  IS  IT  A  MONSTER   ?   is  it  because  it  has     claws     and     teeth     and  could  rip  your     still   -   beating  heart     from  your  chest  if  it  wanted  to   ?     (     or,   even  if  it  didn’t  want  to.     )     is  it  because  it  took  an  innocent  life  when  it  was  fifteen  years  old  and  blue  eyes  are  supposed  to  be  beautiful   ?   is  it  because  it  was     molested,   raped,   taken  advantage  of     by  people  who  wore  masquerade  masks  of  good  intentions   ? 

MAYBE  IT’S  BECAUSE  HE  LEAVES  WHEN  SOMEONE  IS  asking  him  to     stay.   marcos  del  bosque  is  everything  good  that  exists,   and  derek  hale  is  everything  bad.   the  druid  can  speak  of   ‘   balance   ‘   all  he  likes,   but  this  equation  doesn’t  result  in  anything  even.   he  goes  home     (     never  mind  that  his  home  is  a  human  being     )     but  he  doesn’t  sleep,   he  doesn’t  rest.   he  presses  the  bridges  of  his  knuckles  hard  into  his  mouth  and,   eventually,   he  stops  breathing. 

AT  LEAST,   HE  THINKS  HE  DOES.   AT  LEAST,   he’s  convinced  that  he  has.   he  gasps   !   an  inhalation,   coughs  around  his  own  saliva  welling  in  his  throat,   tries  to  figure  out  where  the  hell  it’s  coming  from.   he’s  accustomed  to     burning,   or     electrocuting,   but  this  isn’t  his  fear   !     (     who’s,   then   ?   well,   who  else  are  you     irrevocably  bound     to   ?     )     he  loses  his  awareness,   and  the  next  thing  he  knows,   he’s  right  back  at  the  foot  of  marcos’s  bed     -----     all     feral,   all     wolf,   all  protracted  teeth  and  claws,   blue  eyes  in  the  shadow. 

mi  corazón,   mi  alma.

the nemeton. right. not as intimate and romantic a topic as he’d like,  but it has to be talked about. it’s important. it’s the whole reason he came here, right? (he’s not sure about that anymore. maybe he came here for a completely different reason, for a man with ashes for a past and apprehension for the future.) marcos steps back, hands coming to rest on derek’s shoulders.

“you really know how to dial up the romance. as for the stump, i tried to…connect with it. today.”

the forest always ends up sucking him in, as if there’s a string on his heart tied to there, too. the nemeton calls to him, even now, a blinking neon light on the spectrum of the balance. except it’s less a neon light and more of a boulder teetering on a slippery slope that goes both ways. there’s some real power there, if someone knew how to tap into the full potential and use it. probably not a good idea to, but it’s a possibility.

“it didn’t go well, as i’m sure you know.”

the nemeton wasn’t sure what to make of him, a man who wanted nothing from it. able to play no game with him, able to offer no temp- tation, it rejected his presence and his connection, which felt akin to a boot to the ass. if that boot was made of electricity.

“which poses a problem. i can connect with the forest, but not to my full potential. that puts a damper on my magic. i can’t communicate with the nemeton because it wants to– it plays games. it gives power to get power, especially now that it’s a tree stump instead of a full tree. i didn’t accept mierda from it, so it didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

wow, all that for one question. did he even answer the question? no. no he did not. he inhales a deep breath, exhaling through his mouth, and lets his body relax.

“i’m…okay. i’ve never been rejected that harshly, even in high school. but i need to go back out sometime and communicate with it. with someone who has experience dealing with it.”

that means you, derek.

romance   ?   wait  a  second.   is  that  on  the  table,   here   ?   it  makes  his  face  flush,   and  he’s  lived  a     long  time     without  remembering  that  feeling,   and  he’s  not  entirely  certain  that  he  wants  it  back.   he’s  not  a  stupid  kid  anymore,   and  the  last  person  he  felt  warm  for,  he     killed.     (     he  can’t  allow  that  to  happen  here.   he     won’t.   the  mere  passing  thought  of  it  is  enough  to  draw  a  whimper   !   from  his  throat,   concise,   and  he  presses  the  tips  of  his  fingers  into  marcos’s  chest.     )

 if  he  dies,   so  do  you.     (     he  thought  that  imprinting  meant  that  he  wouldn’t     want     to  die  anymore.     ) 

there’s  something     envious     first  in  him,   followed  swiftly  by  something  else  that  might  be  anger,   grief,   guilt,   despair,   hopelessness     -----     yeah,   so  there’s     a  lot     of  words  for  everything  that  the  nemeton  took  from  him,   and  now  he  has  to  live  the  rest  of  his  life  with  those  gnarled  roots     constricted     ‘round  his  heart  through  this  goddamned  connection.     (     a  druid.  he     deserves     this.   at  least  he  doesn’t  have  any  illusions  about  that.     ) 

it  didn’t  go  well,   as  i’m  sure  you  know. 

❛     -----     no  shit.     ❜     he  doubts  his  eloquence  to  adequately  describe  the     fear,  panic  that  consumed  him  upon  the  nemeton’s  rejection.   the  bridge  of  his  nose  still  aches   !   from     transformation,   but  he’s  not  going  to  tell  marcos  that.     (     he  scrunches  it  up,   raises  a  hand  to  massage  circles  into  it.     )     he  blinks  around  the  rest  of  the  explanation,   waiting  for  the  part  where  marcos  told  the  tree  to     go  fuck  itself     and  leave  them  alone.     (     no  such  luck.     ) 

i  need  to  go  back  out  sometime  and  communicate  with  it.   with  someone  who  has  experience  dealing  with  it.

marcos’ laugh is soft as he turns his head in towards derek’s, the scent of the forest and ash and cotton heavy on him. he wonders, briefly, what he smells like before he brings his hands up, one cupping the back of derek’s head, the other on the broad expanse of his back. from this position, their hearts are almost touching. it’s affirming, like both feet on the ground and an assurance they’ll never leave. if it could stay like this until time runs out, marcos would be okay.

“no, no, i figured if i brought up the balance you’d–” he sucks in a breath through his teeth, “you’d probably do something that i won’t heal from, so.”

he laughs again, quiet as the first time and just as soft. he can feel derek’s heartbeat reverberate in his body, matching the beat of his own. it’s as steady as the move- ment of the earth, and just as powerful. it could change everything. (to him, it already has.)

“estoy siempre contigo, mi alma.”

he’s sure he would be even without the imprint. derek is like the color black, drawing people in and making them a part of him. he’s sure he would be drawn in no matter what.

“but if we’re on the subject– we do balance each other out. un poco.”

this  is  supposed  to  be  comforting  and  familiar,   right   ?   he’s  just     afraid,   the  scent  of  forest  and  ash  and  cotton  in  equal  measure  searing  his  nostrils.   he     hates     it  when  marcos  goes  on  these   ‘   excursions   ‘   to  the  nemeton  because  the  man’s  apprehension  sits   !   on  him  like  a  cross  with  no  destination.     (     he  knows  that  if  ever  he  could  set  it  down,   he’d  be  the  one     wearing     it     -----     rusting  nails  through  his  wrists  and  a  crown  of  sharp  teeth.   if  you’re  wondering  where  the     thorn     is,   it’s  in  his  side     -----     a  messenger  of     satan,   to  keep  his  pride.     )

❛     -----     yeah.   probably.     ❜     a  proper  embrace,   now,   a  hand  contoured  to  the  back  of  his  head  and  an  arm  across  the  expanse  of  his  shoulders.   what  a  relief   !   to  live  in  a  home  that  is  not  burnt,   has  never  been  burning,   that     laughs     and     loves     fully     -----     glass  walls  that  have  never  seen  stones.     (     does  he  love  you   ?   you  don’t  know  about  that.   do  you  want  him  to   ?   more  than  anything     -----     and,   you’ll  probably     die     from  it,   from  all  of  the     wanting.     )  

“mi abuela always explained to me that it’s like a string wrapped around your heart. the further you are from each other, the tighter the string gets. that’s why it hurts, because your soul is bein’ tugged on.”

once upon a time, he used to be able to say that he didn’t know how that felt. he doesn’t get that privilege now. (he’s not sure he considers it a privilege anymore. not when it’s led him here, to the person his soul can take root in. that’s not a curse, it’s a blessing. the universe has given him a gift wrapped in black clothing and claws.)

“she also told me that the universe has ways of leadin’ us to who we’re supposed to be with, but we can choose to ignore it. we can choose to look the other way when the universe gives us signs.”

he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to, but that’s a different story. marcos reaches out a hand to derek’s arm, wrapping his fingers around the forelimb. he’s so tense all the time, definitely probably totally not healthy.

“hey,” he says in a softer voice, “i’m right here. i’m not goin’ anywhere. just…” he thinks about sliding his hand down into dereks, but then thinks better of it. one thing at a time. “remember that i’m with you every step of the way. we’re roots of the same tree.”

jesus, a nature metaphor?

if  this  were  anyone  other  than  marcos  saying  this  to  him,   the  rotation  of  his  eyes  would  be  so     astronomical     that  it  would  likely  develop  its  own  gravitational  pull.   it  sounds     ridiculous     -----     a  metaphorical  string  around  his  heart,   tugging  his  soul   ?   it’s     laughable,   and  it’s  also  exactly  right.   another  growl  in  his  throat,   self   -   deprecating,   and  an  ache   !   beneath  the  nails  of  his  fingers  as  he  suppresses  the  urge  to  protract  claws,   cut  the  string   !     (     he  doesn’t  want  that,   not  really.   that’s  the  point  of  this,   right   ?   he  just  wants  it  to     stop  hurting.     ) 

‘   the  universe  has  ways  of  leading  us  to  who  we’re  supposed  to  be  with.   ‘   derek  wonders  if  he     believes     that,   and  how  much  of  it.   ironic  town  name  aside,   how  likely  is  it  that  marcos  should  find  himself  here,   how  likely  that  they  should     meet,   how  likely  that  derek  should  ever  find  himself  near  enough  to  the  man  to  look  him  in  the  eye   ?     (     that’s  how  it  gets  you,   you  know.   you  look  them  in  the  eye,   and  you’re     done  for.   lucky  him,   that  he  lifted  his  head  for  once.     )

marcos  touches  him,   a  hand  on  his  arm  and  a  quiet  voice,   and  his  skin  has  never  fit  half  so  well  as  when  the  druid  stretches  it  taut  o’er  his  hollow  bones.   a  deglutition,   a  sobering  breath,   and  if  he  weren’t  so  damned     insolent,   he’d  allow  the  smile  that  threatens  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

when  you  are  near,   my  heart  is  at  peace.

“don’t worry so much.”

even if he doesn’t know exactly what’s bothering him, something is. derek doesn’t choose to be around people just because he’s bored. marcos has a feeling it’s the imprint and its heaviness, like a string that gets tighter the further away they are from each other.

“you get used to it. i mean, so i’ve heard– my abuela knew one of her cousins or somethin’ like that who was imprinted on. she said it feels less like a weight eventually, and more like instinct.”

he waves a hand, using his other hand to open his grimoire.

“i’m sure you know all that stuff, bein’ the– yeah.”

werewolf. being the werewolf. a curious eyebrow quirk, and he looks up.

“did anyone in your family ever…?”

‘   don’t  worry  so  much.   ‘   he  scoffs   !   at  the  sentiment  without  really  meaning  to,   his  tongue  pressed  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth  and  the  air  of  an  exhalation     forcing  itself     through  the  leftover  space.  that’s  easy  for  marcos  to  say,   because  none  of  this  affects  him   !     (     all  of  the     reward     and  none  of  the     bullshit.     ) 

the  compulsion  to  touch,   to  be     near     to  the  druid  in  a  capacity     greater     than  they  are  at  present  is  enough  to  render  him  insensate,   unfeeling.   there’s  nothing  left  of  him  that  isn’t  dug  like     roots     into  the  man’s  very  core,   and  the  sheer  romanticism  of  it  is  so     acrid     that  he  clears  his  throat  around  it. 

you  get  used  to  it.

he  wishes  he  would.   he  hopes  that  he  will,   but  this  is     inside  of     and     all  over     him.   it’s  nothing  like  a  pack  mentality,   and  nothing  like  being  the     alpha     of  a  pack.   he’s  known  both,   and  not  quite  so  long  ago  that  he’s  forgotten  the     fire     of  his  blood  in  their  presence,   and  because  of  it.   this  is     different,   though   ;   this  is     deeper     than  blood,   right  down  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones.   alphas  and  packs  come  and  go     (     he’s  known  that,   too     )     but  nobody  can  take  his     bones     from  him.

marcos laughs a full-stomached laugh, lifting an old, dusty book to where derek can see it. the leather cover is cracked, and the stitches have been obviously replaced with whatever string is lying around as they break open, strands of red and blue and green. it’s his grimoire, passed down from generation after generation of proud druids.

“doing some research. herb pressing. druid stuff– it’s all boring unless you’re into magic.”

he takes derek in with his eyes, making sure to look him over for any obvious signs of… anything, really. just something. he doesn’t look hurt, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t. with a quieter voice less laced with laughter, he says,

“you good? you almost sounded worried for a second, i thought i’d have to go check the sky to see if it’s raining fire.”

marcos  laughs,   and  derek     growls     -----     just  enough  of  a  reverberation  ‘gainst  the  walls  of  his  throat  to  indicate     annoyance.   he  elects  to     ignore     the  query  and  the  implication  both,   averts  his  gaze  at  the  warmth  that  pools  beneath  his  breast  at  having  the  man’s  attention  returned  to  him.     (     he  curses   !   the  stones  that  weigh  down  the     beating  muscle     of  him  during  the  periods  of  their  separation,   just  as  he  curses  whatever  damned  lycan  instinct  is  responsible  for  this     imprint     in  the  first  place.     ) 

dark   /   violent  starters   !

dark   /   violent  starters   !

dark   /   violent  starters   !