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Derek Hale looked terrifying. With his broad frame and muscles, with his wild black hair and thick beard, with his eyes the color of blood and fangs of a killer. Despite his kindness and his apparent attraction to Stiles, he was still a stranger, a predator, a wolf.
The thing is, Stiles would deal, but others might not. People found Lord Hale horrid, monstrous and unapproachable.
If Stiles stood behind him, no one would touch him.
He’d be safe with the wolf. If not from him, then definitely from everyone else. And that was enough.
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Not wanting to think on it too much, Stiles took a step forward and passed his hand between the bars, moving the bleeding side closer to Derek’s mouth.
“Not too close, he bites.”
Stiles snatched his hand away just as Derek had been about to lick at it. The snarl he got in response was not comforting.
“He what?” Stiles asked nervously, turning to Deaton.
The man looked a little amused. “Don’t worry, only if he doesn’t like you.”
“Well, he probably hates me, now!” Stiles insisted, turning back to Derek.
He looked extremely displeased.
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Lando leaned against the kitchen counter, fingers curled loosely around a bottle of beer, watching as people milled around—laughing, sharing cigarettes out on the balcony, dancing lazily to the lo-fi playlist Max had put on loop. He wasn’t quite bored, but he wasn’t quite present either. These kinds of parties blurred together lately: familiar faces, predictable small talk, the constant flicker of eyes when people recognised him.
Until him.
The guy sitting cross-legged on the floor near the bookshelf, in jeans that looked too comfortable to be fashionable and a knitted jumper that made him look like he’d wandered in from a chilly night out. He had dark brown hair that curled at the ends and a focused kind of presence, like someone listening intently to a song only he could hear.
Oscar.
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Lando insists on re-scenting Oscar every morning, midday, and night. Hoodies? Stolen. Car seat? Claimed. Oscar’s hotel pillow? Smothered with Lando’s scent. If someone else’s scent gets near Oscar, Lando sulks for hours until Oscar soothes him.
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“Did you make a… dating resume,” Oscar blinked at it.
“We made it,” Alex said proudly. “Name, age, occupation, whether they look like they could write poetry about you or would at least repost your thirst traps with supportive emojis. It’s very comprehensive.”
“I don’t post thirst traps.” Oscar deadpanned.
Alex rolled his eyes. “Well, maybe that’s your first problem.”-
Lando swears off love (again), Oscar tucks him into bed (again), and Alex and George play matchmakers with the subtlety of a brick to the face