It wasn't that Stiles was perfect, rather that he was imperfect. The state of perfection existed merely in one's own mind while imperfection (brilliant, beautiful, bright) existed in everything and nothing, flowing clearly through the world. It was that imperfection (brilliant, beautiful, bright) that brought forth the very meaning of perfect; make (something) completely free from faults or defects, or as close to such a condition as possible (in accordance to the Oxford English Dictionary, of course). It was the imperfection in everything that was to call up the essence (The intrinsic nature or indispensable quality of something, especially something abstract, which determines its character) of perfection.

Perhaps the imperfection (which really translated right back to perfection) came in the slightly furrowed brow as his dark eyes glistened with the beginning of tears.

Perhaps the imperfection came in the tiny twitch of his lips at the perfect (which translated right back to imperfection. And how badly does the world need help?) little joke.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Question upon question piled down around the perfectly imperfect (and how confusing is that?) boy.

Quite simply, Stiles Stilinski was beautiful. (Pleasing the senses or mind aesthetically.)

The nogitsune nuzzled closer, long fingers closed over his belonging's stomach. A slight chill emanated from the boy as he squirmed uncomfortably beneath the nogitsune's clutch. The chill was near soothing to the once captured spirit as he pressed his slightly upturned nose (yet another of the perfectly imperfect quirks of once Stiles Stilinski) deeper into the crook of the other's neck.

"You don't have to fear me Stiles," the nogitsune purred in a hushed tone. "Just don't fight me." The squirming failed to cease despite the reassurance in the nogitsune's voice.

A low and keening whine emitted from the boy's throat as the nogitsune rubbed against his smooth and alabaster skin. (Oddly, 'a fine-grained, translucent form of gypsum, typically white, often carved into ornaments.') "What do you want from me?" He whimpered, pulling his shoulders up in an attempt to deter the nogitsune. He would have none of it.

In an instant the nogitsune jerked his hands into the boy's stomach, forcing a choked cough of pain from him. The grip slackened a second later. "Shh," the nogitsune cooed. "I told you not to fight me." The shoulders dropped to their original position. "There," he soothed again. "That's not so bad, is it?" Slowly, carefully, the nogitsune nuzzled at the throat of the boy (teen, really, for Stiles was all lanky limbs and firm rebellion) like a fox (a carnivorous mammal of the dog family with a pointed muzzle and bushy tail, proverbial for its cunning.) It was a gesture Stiles' clearly didn't appreciate though he did not move.

One long-fingered hand ghosted up Stiles' stomach, tracing the scarcely defined (yet oh so perfectly imperfect) muscles. The nogitsune's lips rested just above Stiles' left ear, warm breaths ghosting the organ (a part of an organism that is typically self-contained and has a specific vital function, such as the heart or liver in humans.) The pulse of blood through the slightly reddened ear betrayed his quickening heart to the fox as he listened carefully to the rush of salty blood beneath skin.

It was like the sound of ocean waves from what the nogitsune could recall of his past. A rushing 'whoosh' of water over pearly white sands. Only brilliantly red blood rushing through vessels used only to transport the oxygen-carrying substance.

"Why?" The weakened form asked. "Why do you want me?" There was a tremor, scarce in the voice, that seemed to reach into the nogitsune, pulling out every emotion he had. (gorgeous)

Then his lips did rest on the heated ear. A soft hum murmured from within the nogitsune's chest, quite near a gentle purr. The hand tracing the firm muscles slowed for a second before flattening against Stiles' stomach and simply resting on the smooth, alabaster skin.

(beautiful)

"Please?" He whimpered, "Please, tell me." His squirming had yet to cease as the nogitsune continued to nuzzle at Stiles' neck, tracing his nose to the right side of Stiles' neck and pressing it into the cold skin. Instinctively, Stiles jerked his head away in an attempt to free himself of the nogitsune clinging to the smooth skin of his neck yet only managing to give the nogitsune more space to maneuver. It was said motion that relinquished some control to the fox. He nuzzled the spot where neck joined shoulder before tracing his nose along what of the carotid artery he could reach until he came to Stiles' ear.

A husky chuckle released from the nogitsune's throat. "Don't you understand, Stiles?" He murmured into the ear.

The form slowly stilled allowing the nogitsune to trace his hands upwards, one arm resting on Stiles' shoulder the other at his ribcage so that the hands locked in a sash across Stiles' chest. It was then that it struck the nogitsune how small the teen seemed. While strong, he was skinny beneath the grip. His shoulders seemed slim compared to the nogitsune and just hours before had said shoulders been the same size.

"N- no!" The rush of blood strengthened for just a second.

The nogitsune rubbed his head of fluffy hair against Stiles' neck, forcing his head farther away so that his chin rested against the others collar bone, head leaning against his neck. "Oh you know, Stiles'," the nogitsune murmured as he nuzzled against the teen once again. "You know I like my possessions as mine and mine alone."

Again, the terrified whimper. "N- no! I don't belong to anyone!"

Slipping his arms lower until has hands rested on Stiles' stomach once again, the nogitsune pulled back sharply. Again, the choked cough filled with pain. "So sure are you?" The nogitsune purred as he slowly relinquished the pressure. "Sure you're not mine?" And this time the coughs continued for a minute as Stiles clutched at the hands then resting lightly on his stomach. His weak fingers pulled at the other's strong digits. "I don't want to hurt you, Stiles. I want to care for what's mine."

Stiles (no, the belonging) twisted his head to gaze at the nogitsune (no, the owner) with wide and terrified eyes. The nogitsune's heart melted slightly at the whiskey eyes gazing at him.

"I'm not yours," Stiles repeated with his wide eyes continuing to gaze at the nogitsune. "I'm no ones but my own." And too late did he realize his mistake.

"And that's just it, Kacper," the nogitsune murmured. "I am you."

Oh how his imperfections (brilliant, beautiful, bright) worked so well to the nogitsune's advantage.