#like the broken back window wiper and frozen doors in winter

[siennaditbot]

Y'all ever get annoyed with your car and its quirks and start looking for a new one you could possibly maybe afford but won't want to switch cuz your car is still better

Black and red seats my beloved.

[the-drakeboys]

What I Deserve

Summary: In the heated passion of a fight, Sam pushes you as far away from himself as he can muster; but it isn’t until you finally take the hint and leave him that he’s forced to face the real reason behind it all.

Pairing: Sam Drake x Reader 

Word Count: 2,236

Warnings: ANGST. Just… yeah, just some angst. And also freezing cold rain. 

A/N: I am so, so, so SORRY for how long I’ve been gone. I miss you guys so much! I hope you’re all doing amazing and that this little oneshot can make up for some of the time I’ve been AWOL. Please send asks or messages and let me know how you’re doing! Link me to stories if anybody’s lookin’ for feedback, I’d love to get some reading in!!

---

“What do you want from me?” he begged. “What do you want me to say? You want me to make sense of this to you, want me to put it together for you?” He stepped slowly forward, closing the distance between you. Your heart raced, your face flushed, anger filling every vein. “Why’s that my job, huh? Why’m I supposed to know, supposed to tell it to you?”

“Shut up, Sam,” you warned. Your hand out, stopping him at his chest. His feet still advancing. Yours retreating.

“And why can’t you figure it out for yourself? Why? Is it cuz you’re full of shit, is it cuz you’re not smart enough? Are you dumb or somethin’?”

“Shut your mouth,” you snapped, teeth clenching, body shaking.

“Are you blind, is there somethin’ wrong with you?” he pressed, his eyes never leaving yours, boring into you, breaking you, refusing to let up, refusing to back off, even as your back met the cool wooden front door of that musty motel room. “What is it, baby, what’s the matter with you? Why won’t you fucking get it?”

“I said, shut the fuck up!” With both hands pressing to his chest, you shoved at him, with all your strength, throwing him away from you, tearing the air between you apart.

He was breathless as he stumbled back, his eyes only leaving you long enough for him to catch himself at the wall with a hand to his side. Your eyes now the ones reaching into his soul and crushing it down until it struggled for air.

For once, he was speechless.

“Fine,” you spoke through the silent tears that’d slipped over your lips. “I get it now.”

You were out of the door before he could say a word; before enough time had passed that he could ever respond. But you didn’t miss it. That impossibly slight shift, the nearly invisible change in his eyes. For one split second, in a way only you could’ve seen, Sam was a boy again.

Lost, and left. Again.

This time, more his fault than ever before.

You raced from the building, your arms wrapped around your middle, your teeth clenched. The old security guard standing by the doors furrowed his brows and tilted his head at you. “You alright?” he asked in a thick, southern accent. You nodded your head, but said no words, disappearing through the doors as he watched you go, concern in his eyes.

You were in your car, the cold air wrapped around you and your breath fogging out in front of you. Your frigid fingers jammed into the AC buttons, turning the heat all the way up and fighting off the aching burn in your chest.

Your shitty windshield wipers barely swept the pouring rain away, they hardly worked at all. Your knuckles went white against the steering wheel as you drove through the parking lot, squinting through the rain and darkness.

You finally felt the wave crash inside of you... the tears rolling down your cheeks. Heavy, and endless, and hot against your skin.

And your feet slamming on the brakes.

He stood there. Right there, in front of you, in front of the car. His denim jacket soaked through, his hair sopping wet, his shoulders dropped and arms hung at his sides. You couldn’t see his face, but... you could feel his eyes on you.

You honked. “Move! Just move, you asshole!” you cried. “You want out so bad, you got it! Just go!”

Another honk. Another, and in the pouring rain, he didn’t move.

You stepped out of the car, standing at your door, one hand on the frame of it, “What the hell are you doing?!”

The headlights shone bright light over the features of his face. The anger was gone from him, and he just... looked at you. Like he wanted answers.

Like he wanted to know why.

Why.

“Are you just gonna stand there?” you broke, “You’re the one that wanted this.”

“I never wanted this.”

“Then what did you want, Sam?” Your fingers curled around the metal frame of your car door.

He couldn’t form a reply. His hand came up, shoving soaked hair out of his eyes. “Why are you here?”

The question was so empty, and so completely loaded, all at once. “What?” you asked. Confused, and enraged, and desperate.

“Why?”

You slammed the car door shut and stepped forward.

He backed up, just a step.

“What the hell kind of question is that? I’m here because you called me, I’m here because of you, and now—“

“—No.” He cut you off. “No... why... why are you here? Ever.”

You shook your head, out of words. His lips parted one more time.

“With me.”

Your heart sunk.

You wanted to punch him.

You wanted to scream at him, and hold him, and shake him by the shoulders until change fell from his pockets.

“Are you serious right now?”

His eyes fled from yours, finding the edges of the motel walls and doors and windows. Counting window panes.

“Just tell me why.”

You pushed then, pushed forward, inching ever closer to him, watching him look anywhere but at you, watching him refuse to face you. “I don’t know why,” you finally answered, fists shaking at your sides, “God help me, I have never known why. Why I put up with your stubbornness, with the way you disappear, with your guarded, untrusting bullshit like I haven’t earned every ounce of your trust by now with everything we’ve been through together. Who knows why I do this, why I let you have me when it’s convenient for you and push me away when it’s not. I don’t know why I’m in love with you, Sam! I have no fucking idea!”

Your voice had risen to a volume you’d never found before, and his head turned away from you, his eyes closing as he processed the words. Tried to summon the strength to just go.

“But—“ you started. He held his breath. “But I know I like it when you sing to me.” You reached up, pushing your own drenched bangs out of your eyes. “And I know that the world stops turning when we’re not together. And that no one makes me laugh like you do, no one has ever made me smile the way I do when I’m with y-you.” Your chin trembled now, and that bubble was back in your throat. You were in front of him, staring up at him, fighting for him to look you in the eyes. “I know that when you touch me, when you hold me, there’s nowhere else on this p-planet that I’d ever want to be.”

You reached out for him.

He backed up. “Don’t,” he whispered, his gaze glued to the ground. The rain still drizzled on you both, each of you shivering. Neither of you caring.

“Don’t what?” you demanded in disbelief, reaching out once again and watching as he nearly leapt back.

“Just don’t, I don’t deserve it!” he blurted. “I don’t deserve any of it!”

He stood there, those tattoos on his neck shining in the rain and the glow of your headlights, his hands shaking in the cold, or maybe with all of his emotion, you’d never really be sure.

“Sam—“

“No! I don’t get it! I don’t get it, I love you and I shouldn’t get to, I shouldn’t get to have you, I don’t know what I ever did, in my whole godforsaken life, to deserve you.” The way his chest rose and fell with fast, heavy breaths, the way he was struggling to put it all together. You were beside yourself. “The things I’ve done? The man I am? What does anyone want with a piece of shit ex-con with nothin’ to his name but a couple’a fancy coins?” 

The metallic pitter-patter of rain on the hood of your car filled the broken silence as his question echoed all around you, the confused, angry, and shattered look on his face begging you to have an answer, or to finally just go. To leave him like he deserved to be left. 

You shook your head. 

He spoke up, afraid of what you were going to say. “You’re too good for me, y/n. Always have been… always will be. And I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you. I never meant to make you feel like it was… like I was throwin’ you away. I just, uhh… I loved you and that’s the scariest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever fe--”

Your fingers grabbed him by the thick collar of his winter jean jacket and pulled him into you, not giving him any more time for any more words, colliding your lips with his as warm tears mingled with the raindrops on your cheeks. He was stiff, as if scared to fall into you again, but you didn’t let him go, moving your lips against his and desperately trying to help him understand just how much you really needed him. Wanting him to know that loving him was no mistake, that you were here to stay, that he would never have to fear watching you go. 

Sam’s heart finally began to beat again, albeit slowly, as he sunk into the kiss, his brows knit tightly together, his frozen hands going to cup your cheeks and pulling you back into him with the passion that’d been eating him up inside all this time. Your own heart raced as you felt him kiss you back, his chest finally pressing to yours and your fingers letting go of his collar just long enough to wrap your arms around his neck. His own left your cheeks and slid around your waist, holding you so tight you could barely breathe. You didn’t mind. 

You let your lips part, warm air still unfolding over each other’s faces as you breathed each other in. Your hands threading through the wet strands of his hair as you whispered, “It was never about deserving, Sam… You never have to question what you deserve. I’m in love with you… with every part of you… and you’re just going to have to deal with that.” 

He cleared his throat, lips pressing together, eyes darting away from you for just a moment as he pulled himself together. Through a shaking voice, and an emotional smile tugging over his trembling lips, Sam mumbled, “You’re outta your mind, y’know that…?” 

Your own tearful smile made his heart pound as you brushed his hair out of his eyes. “Maybe I am,” you mumbled. “Still doesn’t change a thing. But... no more, you got that? No more pushing me away, Morgan, or I’ll kill you.” 

His eyes met yours. He nodded his head, shivering against you. “Y-You got it.. I promise. No more. I swear, I won’t be such a jackass ever again.” 

You let out a shaky laugh. “Good.” 

He let his lips touch yours, closing his eyes. “I love you,” he whispered. 

“I love you, t-too,” you murmured back. “I love all of you, Sam.” 

And his lips were kissing yours again, this time fully, this time completely, this time holding nothing back. You gasped at the way it felt, to feel him just let go, to melt into you and hold you so close, and all you wanted was to never, ever feel him let go. Your bodies held together and lips refusing to part, heads tilting, deepening the kiss, your only source of oxygen coming from one another. It was everything. You’d been waiting for him all this time, and now--

“Hey, kids?” a voice broke through, waking you both up, forcing you to pull away and turn to see where it came from. “You two oughtta be gettin’ inside before you freeze to death, it’s damn near arctic out here.” 

You recognized the accent and thick mustache belonging to the security guard, and smiled as Sam laughed at the words. “Y-You’re probably right,” you sniffled, going to part from Sam only to feel him take your hand instead. The guard just chuckled at you both, smirking a little as he turned and headed back inside.

And as you went to park the car, with Sam at your side refusing to let go of your hand, his thumb softly rubbing over every one of your fingers as if he’d never gotten to hold them before, you were overwhelmed with the realization that, all this time, this was what he really needed. To know you meant it. 

And god, if only he really knew just how much you had always loved him, and always would. 

As you stood in the elevator, headed back up to your floor, you turned to him. “You don’t just deserve me, Sam…” His eyes flitted to yours, surprised at the words. “You deserve… everything. You deserve the world.” 

Sam was taken so far aback by the words that when the elevator doors slid open, he didn’t move a muscle. He was just looking at you. Wondering how he got so lucky. And closing the distance between you once again, capturing your lips with his, trying to pour how he felt about you into the kiss, his hand cupping the side of your neck. Thinking…

God… if only you really knew how much he loved you. If only you really knew that you were his world. 

---

Tags: @s4mdrake-blog @landoverthemountains @supernaturally-avenging-hannibal @cassieseraphim @qwertybubbler @darlingsdevil @peakymarvels @missdictatorme @archesa @writersblockincoming @ladamari68 @unchartedterritoria @curious-expectations @creative-diaries @jodiereedus22 @sicparvismyass

Shoot me an ask, message, or reply if you’d like to be tagged in my works! Thanks so much for reading!

[yespolkadotkitty]

PLEASE pluck Ricky from obscurity like you did Zach!!!

Right so you are all fairly keen on this guy because I also got these:

Pick You Up

Ricky Hauk x reader

Word count: 1700 ~ Warnings: None really. Light angst. Kissing.

Lovely gif by @ithinkwehitametaphor

i

You’ve not lived in this town long. The first time you use the gas station, the tall, skinny guy behind the counter glances at you from under his ball cap, the red brim only serving to bring out the slices of amber in his soulful brown eyes. There’s a crease in his cupid’s bow, the thumb print of a God proud of his work. He rings up your service, gives you a collection time.

When you park up back at home, you see it. A note under your unused windscreen wiper.

Autumn in her eyes

Her hair ropes of burnished gold,

Kissed by corners of the

Falling leaves. Will seasons pass

Before I look upon her

Once more?

ii 

The poem was from him. You know it. You know it because the next time you bring your car back, when winter’s starting to bite chunks out of the temperature, you see him write something on your receipt in the same loopy scrawl. He sees you looking. Ricky is embroidered on his navy blue overalls. A flush creeps up his cheeks, and you wonder how old he is. Twenty? You could cry over his perfect cheekbones. 

“It should be more than that?” you ask when he rings you up.

The corner of his mouth curves up. “Returning customer discount. No one will miss a few quarts of gas.”

There’s a worn, tattered book propping up a wonky corner of the cash register. A Poem for Every Day of the Year.

And when you arrive home, there’s another scrap of paper under your windscreen wiper.

Winter’s grasp is far-reaching

Fingers dug in tight

But footprints thaw frozen ground,

A smile melts frostbite

Inch by Inch

You fold the paper carefully, tuck it under a magnet on your fridge, next to the one you already have. Wonder what it means. If he writes poetry for all his customers.

iii 

Before Winter ends, your exhaust pipe crashes off the end of your car and you narrowly miss swerving off the road in shock at the huge bang it makes. You drive right to the service station, and like a dream, there he is, the huge roller door of the workshop open, and he’s bent over another car, his ball cap on backwards, overalls half-unzipped. Heat is pumping out of the workshop interior and you park your car. As you shut the door, Ricky looks up, and his face goes slack for a second, before he plasters a polite query on the handsome canvas. “Uh, hey. Can I help you?”

“Exhaust pipe fell off on the highway,” you sigh. “I know she’s a hunk of junk, but I just can’t afford to replace her, not yet.”

“I’ll give it my best shot.” Ricky holds out his hand for the keys, a smear of grease on his thumb, and you stare at his palm for a moment, wondering what his hands would feel like on your skin. If he’d leave a fingerprint of grease behind.

You wouldn’t mind much, if he did.

iv

You have to leave the car overnight, eventually. Ricky comes into the tiny office with the noisy watercooler and tiny wall-mounted TV that only shows one God-awful news channel. His hands are shoved into his overall pockets and there’s a streak of engine grease on his cheek.

“Uh, I’m sorry, but she’s gonna have to stay in until tomorrow. My boss has gotta check the weld, and he’s stuck in the snowstorm one state over.”

“Okay.” You’re not cross with him. What would be the point?

Ricky looks from the clock to you. He probably has a hot date you’re keeping him from, you think with a little sadness. “Um, I’ve gotta lock up now. I can drive you home. If you want.” He jerks his thumb at the window to his right. A beaten up red truck sits outside.

“Thank you. That’d be great.”

The snow has started to fall in earnest. Ricky locks up the gas station and pockets the keys as the shutter finally closes up tight. He opens the passenger door for you, waits until you’re safely strapped in before he gets in on his side and starts the engine. “You’ll have to direct me.” He tugs off the ball cap and stuffs it in the glove box.

“Wait,” you say, as his hand hovers over the stick.

He glances at you with an eyebrow raised, that poet’s mouth set solemnly, his tiger iron eyes so large in his face, larger somehow with his thick hair sticking up at all angles, and he looks so young but like he has an old soul. Like he’s seen so much; too much, and he is so tired.

“Why did you write me those poems?”

Ricky looks away, chewing his bottom lip.

“You did, didn’t you?”

“So what?” he throws back, still not looking at you. “I’m sorry, okay? Is that what you wanna hear?”

Your heart cracks down the middle. “No, it isn’t. They were beautiful. I kept them.”

His gaze shoots to yours. “You are beautiful,” he says, very soberly. 

And you lift your hand to his cheek and then he’s kissing you, earnestly, his lips soft and sweet and unpracticed. Not that you’re experienced, but you estimate yourself as perhaps half a decade older than him. He groans into your mouth and desire skitters through you. You part your lips for him and he finally touches you, just a hand on your thigh, his palm warm through your worn, old jeans.

The drive to your house is full of thick, syrupy tension. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t notice the way Ricky subtly adjusts himself during the ten minute trip.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t want to help him out with that.

He parks outside your building, and you kiss him again before you leave, nipping at his tempting lower lip, making him curse, low and sweet in that sinful, husky voice, still a little thready with youth.

“I’ll work on your car first thing tomorrow?” he half asks, half informs you, as you open the passenger door. The cold wind arcs in, biting at your skin. “I could pick you up. Early. If you want.”

You nod. “Okay. Thanks.”

Ricky catches your hand, tangles your fingers. “Guys like me write poetry about girls like you because it’s the only way we’ll be with you,” he mutters, and there’s something so sad and resigned in the depths of his butterscotch gaze.

You don’t know what to say, and if you kiss him again you run the serious risk of being arrested for indecent behaviour in his truck.

v

He’s early the next morning. You’re not ready. 

“Come up,” you say through the buzzer, and in a matter of moments you’re opening your apartment door to him. He holds the service station ball cap in his hands, wringing it nervously, and his overalls are half-unzipped to reveal a plain white t-shirt. He smells of cheap cologne and minty toothpaste, and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

“Want a coffee?” you ask. “I’ll be five minutes.”

“No, thanks. Uh, I’m fine.” He stands by the door, like he needs permission to sit down. 

You rush around, calling your boss to remind him about your car situation. He’s stuck at home anyway due to a snowdrift, so he doesn’t chew you out.

Pulling on your winter boots - hopefully they’ll see you through to March - you step out of the bedroom. Ricky’s leaning over your kitchen counter, scrawling something on a post-it note. He jerks up, guilt sketched on his angular face.

“Sorry.”

“Not at all.”

He folds the paper over. “Don’t read it.. Til later.”

He turns to face you, hesitates, wariness and want and need laid bare in those gorgeous hazelnut eyes.

“Could I… kiss you? Maybe?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, and Ricky cups your face in his broad, callused hands, and lowers his mouth to yours, and the kiss starts soft and sweet, explorative, and then you slide your hands up his shoulders and tangle your fingers in his thick, tattered-silk hair, and he backs you into the wall, his lips urgent on yours, licking into your mouth, and you drink him in like you’re starved for the taste of him. He groans against your lips, one hand slipping down your back to palm your ass, and-

And your phone rings shrilly from your bag. Your work mobile.

You and Ricky spring apart. 

“I’d better get that.”

It turns out to be a shitty sales call, but the moment’s been broken. You mostly manage to ignore the distended shape of Ricky’s jeans, but his face is red the whole drive to the garage.

When you arrive, a man who you guess to be Ricky’s boss is already there, opening the shutter. Ricky turns to you, his hand hesitant on your thigh. “Maybe…. Maybe you’d wanna see me again? 

You cover his hand with yours, link your fingers. “I’d love to see you again, Ricky.”

His smile lights up the dreary winter day.

*****

Special thanks to @dornish-queen without whose watchlist, this fic would never have happened.

Tagging the Pedro pals! @gamingaquarius @a-seeker-of-imagination @songsformonkeys @alldatalost @dornish-queen @lackofhonor @alienprincesspoop @beccaplaying @cryptkeepersoul @keeper0fthestars @winters-buck @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @jaime1110 @nelba @heatherbel @thewayofthemandalorian @agirllovespasta @seawhisperer @holographic-carmen @mrschiltoncat @mourningbirds1 @emmy-dandiliom918 @trippedmetaldetector @starlight-starwrites @oloreaa @thegreenkid @tomhardydallasstarsgirl @buckstaposition @pedropascallion @pajamasecrets @knittingqueen13 @skdubbs @opheliaelysia

[always-the-little-spoon]

Sterek A-Z Challenge: one word prompts

Week 24: X - XXX

The snow fell heavier than an hour ago when Derek had dropped Stiles off at their cabin. He’d transferred the title to his and Stiles name while he was dealing with Laura’s estate after putting it off for so long, and planned to surprise Stiles with the news tonight as an early Valentine’s gift because Stiles loved the safety and seclusion their home away from home offered.

The wipers furiously beat back the fat fluffy flakes that swirled around the car. Derek couldn’t see more than six feet beyond the windshield as he crept along the long drive of the cabin. If it wasn’t for the chains on the Camaro, he would have slid off the road long ago, supernatural reflexes or not.

The drive up from the city had been a nightmare when they hit the storm front just outside of Albany. They’d decided to spend the full moon before Valentine’s Day together at the cabin and driven up from the city immediately after Stiles’ Thursday afternoon class. In fact, Stiles had sprinted out of the building, jumped into the front seat of the Camaro, and screamed: “punch it, Chewie!” And Derek, because he loved the adorable idiot, had growled, flashed a little fang, and burned rubber tearing out of the parking lot.

Just outside of the city limits, Stiles had rewarded him with spectacular road-head that nearly resulted in them getting pulled over. Definitely worth it.

The weather hadn’t called for snow. The forecast hadn’t even mentioned clouds. Meteorology was more unpredictable than the ever-shifting future of fortune-telling, so what did the channel six weather anchor really know. Nothing, apparently because there was now over a foot and a half of snow, and growing.

The shadow of the cabin loomed ahead through the blizzard. The light of the lit windows glowed eerily as it cut through the whiteout conditions. The cabin didn’t have central heating, which Derek planned to remedy if Stiles’ father decided to retire across the country like Stiles had been hinting, but for now, the fireplace was the only heat source. In the summer, the cabin remained perfectly cool built on a stone foundation, but winter provided a challenge, and also a romantic atmosphere to lay Stiles out on the rug and aggressively blend their scents until his boyfriend was a shivering mess of loose limbs.

Stiles had promised to get the fire going and unpack before he emailed his professors that he may be trapped upstate for the week while Derek made a run to the nearest grocery store for emergency supplies to outlast the storm.

Derek pulled up as close to the front porch as he possibly could. The icy cold slapped him across the face like an angry frost nymph, also Stiles’ fault, as he flung open the door. Snagging the bags of food out of the passenger seat, he made a break for the front door. His converse, a gift from Stiles for his birthday, crunched in the snow. He stopped short on the front porch.

The front door was wide open.

Every light in the cabin was on. The windows glowed cheerfully in the gloom, but there was no familiar steady heartbeat inside. Not trusting his senses in the midst of the latest ‘storm of the century’, Derek rushed into the cabin.

“Stiles?” Derek called. The groceries were abandoned beside the door without a second thought. “Stiles?”

Scrunched balls of newspaper were surrounded by shaved kindling in the fireplace, and a box of matches sat ready and waiting on the ground beside the hearth. But there was no wood.

The cabin was empty. Stiles must have gone out to the woodshed out back. The cabin was an icebox. The door had been left open much longer than the short trip to the shed would take. But then again, Stiles was human. He knew the property well after many trips up for the full moon over the years, but he didn’t have the benefit of Derek’s senses to combat the whiteout conditions. It was dangerous for Stiles to be outside, especially with the storm growing worse with each passing moment. The temperature had dropped even in the short amount of time Derek had spent searching for Stiles in the cabin. He pulled the bright red scarf that Stiles’ had laughingly wrapped around him before he climbed out of the car earlier up over his nose to fend off the icy chill stinging his nose.

Hunched over, Derek fought his way to the shed. The snow was too heavy. Any footprints had already been covered and swept away. The only sound to be heard was the roar of the wind and creaking of the frozen trees. Snow pelted Derek. His senses were impaired.

The wind died down enough as Derek entered the woods behind the cabin that Derek could detect the hint of pine and cedar that guided him through the snowstorm to the woodshed a short distance into the woods. The door was closed, and the lock was frozen shut. The small structure also lacked the scent he sought.

Derek turned back, anxious for a new sign or clue as to where his wayward boyfriend was, but the only response was the whistle of the wind through the bare branches. Ripping the scarf off, Derek tied it around the nearest tree as a marker. If Stiles was lost in the woods, maybe he would catch sight of the bright colour and it would guide him home. He stripped down, carelessly tossing his clothes into the snow, until the frigid air bit at his skin. Rolling his shoulders, he allowed the shift to take over.

All four paws hit the snow at a dead run, and Derek raced deeper into the forest. He tracked in a grid pattern, circling back to use the cabin as a base. But he found no trace of Stiles.

On his fourth circuit, Derek caught a whiff of a faint metallic scent he recognized all too well; blood. He changed course, heart thundering his chest louder than his paws in the snow.

A dark X marked the trunk of a tree a few inches above the snow level. Derek nosed at the bark. The tree carried Stiles’ scent. Derek whimpered. His mate was so clever. Stiles had known that Derek would shift to track him because as a wolf, Derek’s senses were acuter. Stiles had marked the tree low enough to be in Derek’s eye line as he ran through the woods, but also used the one scent Derek would never be able to ignore. The X was drawn in blood; Stiles’ blood.

The cold stung Derek’s nose as he chased Stiles’ scent on the wind. Stiles was completely turned around as his trail headed south, the complete opposite direction of the cabin. At some point, he’d tried to go back, but changed direction when he’d missed the glow of the cabin, as if trying to circle back, completely bypassing it in zero visibility conditions.

Another bloody X marked the trunk of a tree less than a mile from the first. Derek had never been more grateful that his mate was a genius than he was tracking the meandering path of Stiles’ scent rubbed into the bark of trees that he passed. Though his brilliant mate wasn’t quite brilliant enough to stay put and wait for Derek to find him.

Stiles never had been good with waiting, always eager to jump into the fray. His reckless disregard had saved Derek’s life more than once, but it was never easy for Derek to let his mate walk into danger. If Derek had his way, he’d bundle Stiles up, steal him away, and feed him curly fries for the rest of his life far, far away from danger. New York was supposed to have been safe, and for the most part, it was, but that still didn’t stop Stiles from stumbling into trouble.

A third X on a tree drew Derek’s attention. It was fresh. The blood hadn’t dried. Derek paused. A sound on the wind caught his ear, and he tilted his head to the side, listening hard. It was drowned by the raging storm, but undeniable.

The volume and pitch grew as Derek drew closer. Stiles wasn’t shouting Derek’s name to be found. Stiles was screaming.

Derek raced chased the muted voice towards the river. This late in winter, the frozen river would be hidden under a layer of snow. Stiles’ had wanted to go skating at the local pond they’d passed on their way through the nearby town, but the weather hadn’t been cold enough for the ice to have formed thick enough to support weight.

That realization struck Derek in the chest, and he pushed himself to his limit. His muscles ached and burned as he burst through the treeline.

“Derek?” Stiles shouted when he caught sight of Derek on the shore. Stiles clung to the edge of the broken ice, fingers scrambling to pull himself out of the water, but the ice broke around him. “Derek! Derek, help!” He lost his grip and slipped underwater and out of sight.

Derek’s howl was lost in the wind.

Unable to follow Stiles or they’d both be trapped under the ice, Derek pranced on the shore unsure, but he needed to move soon or the prediction Lydia would come true. Derek couldn’t lose Stiles. He couldn’t watch another packmate die. He couldn’t fail his mate... They hadn’t even sealed the bond because Derek wanted to wait until Stiles finished school and graduated college.

A dull thud vibrated through the ice. Stiles beat against the ice.

Derek took a tentative step onto the ice. It creaked under his weight, but didn’t break. His wolf was lighter, though not by much, and more evenly distributed on four legs rather than two. He moved slow tracking the slowing thuds of Stiles’ fist against the ice until his mate was directly below him.

Like from the nature documentary Stiles had forced him to watch one night when he couldn’t sleep, Derek mimicked a polar bear hunting for seals under the ice and snow in the Arctic. He reared up on his hind leg and slammed his front paws down on the ice. The ice cracked under his weight. His paws sank into the water and hit something soft, and he scrambled back to prevent himself from joining Stiles in the water.

Stiles’ favourite red hoodie was a beacon in the water. Derek, the big bad wolf, sank his fangs into the bright red fabric and held Stiles in place so he didn’t drift further along under the ice with the current. The hole was too small.

The dull thuds against the ice slowed. The impact of each strike weakened. Stiles had stopped moving.

Derek couldn’t get Stiles out through the hole. He couldn’t risk shifting either or he’d fall through the ice too. Derek frantically pawed at the edge of the ice, desperately clenching the soggy material that connected him to Stiles between his teeth.

Chunks of ice floated in the hole that Derek had widened to a barely shoulder-width strip. Derek tugged the hoodie until Stiles floated into a better position. His head broke the surface of the water.

Stiles' eyes were closed and his lips were blue. Derek couldn’t maintain a grip on the hoodie. The fabric ripped. Stiles began to drift under the ice again. In a moment of pure desperation, Derek sank his fangs into Stiles' shoulder. The coppery tang of his mate’s cold blood flooded his mouth and he gagged. Derek dug his paws into the snow and ice, and pulled, inching back a step at a time. Slowly, Stiles’ limp body slid out of the water, across the ice, and onto the shore.

On solid land, Derek shifted. Nudity meant little, more often than not foregoing clothes in the privacy of their own home or the woods, but temperatures were well below freezing. The howling wind bit at his exposed skin cutting him to the core, and the snow burned on contact. None of that mattered when the absence of Stiles’ heartbeat echoed in his mind.

“Stiles? Baby? Wake up,” Derek pleaded. His hand cupped Stiles’ cold cheek and tilted his head back as he searched his memory for what to do. Stiles would know. Stiles always knew. “Shit. Stiles! Stiles, please.”

Vision blurred, Derek fought the shift that threatened to take control without his anchor grounding him. Stiles was gone. Pinching Stiles’ nose, he pressed his mouth against Stiles’ blue lips and breathed. Nothing happened. He vaguely knew what to do thanks to Stiles’ obsession with research and tendency to ramble to a captive audience.

Derek began chest compressions. The crack of Stiles’ ribs echoed across the frozen river, and Derek choked on the desperate sob that bubbled up his throat. He’d already lost everyone he’d loved, cared for, or protected; Paige, his family, Laura, Peter, Erica, Boyd. Even Cora had left. Stiles was all he had.

Stiles’ chest rose and fell with each new attempt to breathe life into his lifeless body. Tears flowed freely. Moisture clung to his cheeks and froze in his eyelashes. Derek openly sobbed, begging whatever higher power that could hear him as he pumped Stiles’ chest, willing his heart to beat. This couldn’t be the end. Derek couldn’t lose Stiles, not now. Not after everything they had survived together. He couldn’t lose his only family. Not again.

Derek delivered a puff of air. Stiles’ chest shallowly rose and fell, and then a faint thump. And then another. Stiles’ pulse was slow and faint, but it was there. Still, Stiles’ wasn’t breathing.

“Come on, baby,” Derek whispered and breathed into Stiles’ mouth again. He kept going, breathing for Stiles every few seconds until Stiles spat up. Not just water. He vomited violently, retching and gagging until Derek rolled him onto his side.

Stiles didn’t immediately shoot to life completely awake and alert like in movies. He remained unconscious, heartbeat weak and breathing laboured. Derek whined pitifully, nosing at the back of Stiles’ shoulder where his teeth had sunk into Stiles’ skin. The wound bled sluggishly with his renewed heartbeat.

Derek was cold. His limbs were heavy and stiff as he gathered Stiles’ limp body in his arms and huddled him against his chest. He staggered to his feet, joints aching, and stumbled, barely able to support his own weight. The wet clothes had formed a crust of ice and frost, but Stiles barely felt cooler than Derek. Supernatural warmth and healing aside, Derek’s body was shutting down exposed to the elements and his own clothes lost in the woods.

One foot in front of another, Derek tracked his own path through the snow with Stiles heavy in his arms. By the time he reached the glow of the cabin, he trembled under the strain. His bare foot hit a patch of ice on the cabin steps and slipped. His kneecap audibly cracked against the stone step.

A howl ripped through the woods as pain exploded, radiating through his limbs. Derek hunched over, panting hard, but held Stiles tighter to his body, shielding him from harm. His healing factor wasn’t kicking in, but Derek shoved past the pain. At that moment, getting Stiles warm and dry was all that mattered.

Derek collapsed next to the cold fireplace and began the problematic process of stripping wet clothes off an unresponsive body. His hands shook and fumbled with the zipper of Stiles’ jeans and peeled away layers of clothing until Stiles was laying nude and motionless in the middle of the living room. Derek cocooned Stiles in every blanket he collected he could find in the closet, the bedroom, and off the back of the couch until only his face peeked through a tiny hole. But it wasn’t enough. They still needed a fire for warmth, but the wood was still locked in the shed, outside in the storm.

“I’ll be back,” Derek whispered. His voice cracked. “Just hang on for me, okay? I’m gonna take care of you, baby, I promise. I’ll be right back.” He pressed his lips to Stiles’ forehead and detected little to no difference in body temperature between them.

The trip back to the woodshed became an impossible quest the second he stepped outside. Derek shut the cabin door tightly behind him and shifted, but his knee had not healed, and he hobbled on three legs, cutting a path through the snow.

When Derek shifted back, unable to carry firewood on four legs, he collapsed against the side of the shed, so beyond the point of cold that he no longer shivered and trembled under the icy blades of snow tearing at his bare skin. Underfoot, his abandoned clothing crunched in the snow, frozen solid. Feet numb, he barely felt it.

Straining, Derek snapped the lock on the door. The shed offered a brief reprieve from the wind, but ladened with cut logs, he forced himself back into the polar temperatures and followed a trail back to the shelter of the cabin, and Stiles, marked by his own blood against pristine white.

The bones and cartilage of his knee ground and cracked with every step. Derek collapsed beside the cold grate of the fireplace. Firewood rolled across the floor, but he managed to stack two logs against the kindling. His hands shook, movements sluggish, as he struggled to strike a match. The first three fizzled and failed when he dropped them, but the crumpled newspaper that miraculously caught fire on his fourth attempt.

The flames licked the wood. The blooming spots in Derek’s vision darkened as he slumped over. Distantly, a phone buzzed. The vibrations reverberated through the wood floor of the cabin under Derek’s ear. Gasping for air, Derek stared at the lump of unmoving blankets and listened to the slow, quivering thump of Stiles’ heartbeat in the growing dark.

When Derek came too, he was warm. Too warm. He was bound tightly, arms restricted, and pressed against another nude and equally sweaty body. Nose nestled at the juncture of neck and shoulder, he inhaled deeply and whimpered. “Stiles...”

“Hey, herowolf,” Stiles croaked.

Derek opened his eyes and tilted his head back. Stiles was watching him with heavy-lidded, tired eyes and a faint smile. He was still alarmingly pale, but his lips were no longer blue, and his cheeks pleasantly flushed from the heat of the fire. A haphazardly taped bandaged stained a dark red covered his shoulder where Derek’s fangs and sunk into the skin and dragged him from the frozen river.

“You’re here,” Derek said, unable to reconcile the truth when he could still hear the empty silence of Stiles frozen on the ground. He tried to reach up to cup Stiles’ cheek or count his fingers to ensure this wasn’t a dream, but his arms were pinned to his sides.

Stiles and Derek were snuggled together, Derek half on top of Stiles, and wrapped in layers of blankets while the lit fire crackled merrily in the fireplace beside them. Somehow, Stiles had dragged his unconscious body into the cocoon of warmth and slapped a bandage on his own shoulder.

Derek swallowed the lump forming in his throat, and the corner of his eyes stung.

“Shit. Hey. Hey, Derek. I’m here. I’m still here.” Stiles struggled to hug him, but his arms weren’t cooperating, and his movement was as limited as Derek’s. “You found me. You saved me.”

“I didn’t.” Derek wormed his hands under Stiles’ back and clung desperately to his boyfriend, inhaling his scent and whimpering like a terrified little pup. Under any other circumstance, the pitched keen would have been humiliating, but Derek instincts were on edge. ”You died. You were gone. I lost you. You were gone.”

“I’m sorry. Derek, I’m so sorry,” Stiles croaked and sniffled. “Shit, Der. I can’t believe you found me. I was so scared. It hurt so much. Felt like my head was going to explode and my lungs would burst.”

Derek nosed at Stiles' throat, listening to the racing pulse under the skin. “Don’t leave me again. Please don’t leave me alone,” he begged, and Stiles shivered under him. He lay his head over Stiles’ heart and listened to the sluggish, quavering beat under his ear until his eyes grew heavy with fatigue. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Stiles let out a shaky breath. “Can’t get rid of me that easily. Guess we’ve both cheated death, huh. Bet he’s cheesed.”

The cabin fell quiet as they lay tangled together listening to the crackle and pop of dry wood. Derek stared at the flames, Stiles’ heartbeat under his ear, and growled softly until Stiles' chest shook with a small huffed chuckle. At some point, Derek would have to disentangle himself from the safety of their nest of warmth to add a log to the fire and rebandage Stiles’ poorly wrapped shoulder, but for now, he was high on the heady scent of mate and home.

“Thank you.” Stiles’ voice was barely above a whisper, but the sound echoed through Derek’s mind like a gunshot.

Derek shifted his weight, attempting to prop his upper body up on his elbow enough to hover over his boyfriend. His leg twinged, but there was no jolt of agonizing pain which meant his cracked kneecap had healed after he’d lost consciousness. He watched the dance of firelight reflected in the deep pools of Stiles’ golden honey eyes.

“You anchor me,” Derek said. Stiles’ lips parted with an inaudible gasp, and his heart stuttered in his chest. He knew Stiles had always suspected that his anchor had changed. “To lose you is to lose my humanity.”