Work Text:
Derek was shirtless, again.
Not that Stiles was complaining. He’d reached a point in his life where he was deeply and spiritually opposed to shirts on Derek Hale. And also pants. And shoes. And possibly underwear. But especially shirts, because they blocked that stupidly sexy tattoo on his back.
The triskelion. Bold. Centered between his shoulder blades. Symbol of werewolves, his family legacy, the pack’s strength, his alpha identity. It was meaningful and kind of hot, and sometimes, when Derek was asleep on his stomach, Stiles would trace it with a fingertip just to ground himself. Like he was anchoring himself to Derek, to all of this that they’d built together.
Tonight, Derek was lying on his stomach on the couch, lazily scrolling through something on his phone while Stiles sat cross-legged on the floor next to him, half-watching an old monster movie and half-doodling in the corner of his notebook.
A sudden thought pushed its way out of Stiles' mouth before he could really process it.
“I think I want a tattoo.”
Derek didn’t look up from his phone, though his eyebrow twitched like he’d heard. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Stiles continued, chewing on the cap of his pen. “Like…something cool. But meaningful, too. Not just a barbed wire armband or a tramp stamp of Pikachu.”
Derek set his phone aside. Now he was interested. “What would you get?”
Stiles squinted, flipping to a new page in his notebook. “Well. That’s the problem. I keep going back and forth.”
Derek gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, propping his chin on his folded arms. “Tell me the ideas.”
Stiles clicked his pen dramatically, like he was presenting a thesis. “Idea number one: a quote. Something Latin and mysterious. Maybe Memento Mori. Or Semper Fi even though I’ve never been a Marine.”
Derek hummed.
“Option two,” Stiles continued, “is coordinates. Like, of the Nemeton. Or maybe where we kissed the first time, except I don’t know the coordinates for your old loft’s fire escape.”
“Could figure it out,” Derek said softly.
Stiles grinned, warmed by how serious Derek sounded about that. “Option three: something nerdy. Lightsabers. Captain America’s shield. The symbol from Avatar: The Last Airbender—you know, the bending elements.”
Derek smirked. “I’d support that one. You are the Avatar of chaos.”
“Rude,” Stiles said, but he was grinning. He twisted around so he was facing Derek fully now, elbow on the coffee table. “Okay, option four. The real one I’ve been thinking about lately.”
Derek tilted his head. “Go on.”
“I kinda wanna get the triskelion.”
That got Derek’s attention. His eyes narrowed just a little, not in suspicion, but in that sharp, calculating way he did when he was reading someone more than listening to them.
“You want my tattoo?” Derek asked.
Stiles shrugged a shoulder, suddenly a bit self-conscious. “I mean…yeah. It’s not exactly the same, I’d change it up a little, but yeah. Your tattoo, your symbol, whatever you wanna call it. I just… I don’t know. It means something.”
Derek sat up, finally, turning toward him with a softness in his eyes that immediately made Stiles flustered.
“Say more,” Derek said.
“Okay, um. Well.” Stiles tapped the pen against his palm. “It’s… like. You. And your family. And the pack. And it’s balance, right? Past, present, future. Body, mind, spirit. All that stuff. It’s this deeply symbolic thing that just… fits.” He swallowed. “I’d want to put it over my heart.”
Derek blinked. “You would?”
“Yeah,” Stiles said, voice going softer. “Because you’re there. All the time. You’ve become this huge part of me, and I… I like the idea of honoring that. Of marking it.”
Derek’s mouth curved into something so gentle Stiles had to look away for a second.
“I wouldn’t make it exactly like yours,” Stiles added quickly, nerves kicking in. “I was thinking about getting it in the bi flag colors. You know. Pink, purple, blue? Subtle-ish. But still… obviously me.”
Derek leaned forward and brushed a hand through Stiles’ hair, smoothing it out of his face. “I think that’s beautiful.”
“You do?”
“I do,” Derek said firmly. “It’s personal. It’s you. And if you want it, then I think it’s perfect.”
Stiles' ears went a little pink. “You’re not mad it’s a copy?”
“No,” Derek said. “It’s not a copy. It’s an echo. Yours is yours.”
“Even if it matches yours?”
“Especially if it does,” Derek murmured. “It’s kind of romantic.”
Stiles blinked at him. “Did you just say romantic?”
“I can say romantic.”
“No, I know, it just—sound the alarms! Derek Hale said romantic!”
Derek rolled his eyes and tugged Stiles up by the collar so he could kiss the grin right off his face. “You’re insufferable.”
“But lovable.”
“Regrettably,” Derek muttered, but he kissed him again. Slow. Tender. Like maybe he wanted to memorize the idea of Stiles with that mark on his skin. A mirror of Derek’s own, placed over the most vulnerable part of the body—heart, ribs, soul.
When they finally broke apart, Stiles leaned his forehead against Derek’s. “Will you come with me when I get it?”
“Obviously.”
“And hold my hand when the needle goes bzzzzz and I cry like a little bitch?”
Derek smirked. “I’ll do more than that. I’ll take a video for your twin.”
“Rude again!”
“You set yourself up for that.”
Stiles laughed, pulling Derek down onto the floor with him. They sprawled there for a while, tangled together, the movie forgotten, the world gone quiet around them.
After a few minutes, Derek whispered, “Over your heart, huh?”
“Yep.”
“You really love me.”
“Wow, did you just figure that out?” Stiles teased, then softened. “Yeah. I do. With my whole dramatic, bisexual, chaos-loving heart.”
Derek kissed him again, this time slow and sure and reverent.
And when Stiles eventually got the tattoo—three bold spirals in pink, purple, and blue ink, etched just over the left side of his chest—Derek traced it with his fingers like a prayer.
A match. A bond. A vow without words.
Something permanent. Something sacred.
Something theirs.