Because maybe Derek has been working outside — he’s been making a start on the porch outside the house — and he’s got sawdust in places sawdust shouldn’t be. His feet are cold, so he runs a small bath to warm them up, sitting on the edge of the tub in a tank top and letting the steam fill the bathroom. He strips the tank top off and slides into the tub, reaching up to switch the showerhead on. Water streams out and he holds it over his head, his hair falling flat in his face, the water running down his chest and over his cock.
His body slowly warms up, the nicks and scrapes he got from working healing up until his body feels whole again. There’s a container of raspberry scented shower gel on the side, and Derek squeezes some out, his large hands smoothing it down his body until he’s smelling all fruity sweet.
And he can hear Stiles coming through the door, can hear him calling out “Derek?” and Derek stays quiet, knows that Stiles will find him if he waits long enough because Stiles always finds him.
There’s slow, steady, steps up the stairs and the sound of Stiles kicking off his shoes, tugging at his tie and taking off the rest of his clothes. Steam escapes from the bathroom when Stiles opens the door, his eyes immediately tracing a path over Derek’s body. And Derek grins, tilts his head in invitation.
Stiles takes it, clambering into the tub with Derek. Aiming the stream of water over Stiles’ head, Derek’s laughter fills the room when Stiles squawks and splutters. Dropping it in the tub, Derek pulls Stiles close by the back of his neck and kisses him, his fingers pressing gently against Stiles’ skin.
And it’s even better than what Derek dared to imagine when he and Stiles started this, when they became serious. The comfort of Stiles always being here with him; these lazy makeouts because, for once, they have nowhere else to be. Derek wouldn’t change this for the world.
Stiles thought getting a job in his school library would be perfect – he’s constantly surrounded by books and he’s allowed to study while he mans the front desk. That is unless he’s helping a student find a book or restocking shelves – two things that become annoyingly common when starting quarterback Derek Hale starts frequenting his shifts. The guy is obviously mocking him because there’s no way he’s actually as into literature as he acts.
Derek secretly loves books and not-so-secretly likes Stiles, the nerdy-but-cute guy who works at the library. His idea of flirting might be creepy unorthodox and it takes a more than a little while to convince Stiles he’s being sincere – and even longer to convince his best friend Scott.
If what happens after is a little cliché, well, it isn’t like the books have any room to judge. (click images to enlarge)
yeah, but imagine Derek and Stiles on a weekend away, and they haven’t had time at home to sleep and rest and take the time to be with each other. so they turn their phones off and tell the rest of the pack they can deal with whatever comes up, and book into a posh hotel with beds that have soft mattresses and Egyptian cotton sheets, and when they get there, they’re so tired they just strip off and fall asleep.
but when they wake up —
Stiles wakes up first, like he does at home, and heads over to the mini kitchen at the other end of the room, leaving Derek to sleep because Derek gets super grumpy when he’s woken up before he wants to be. (secretly Stiles thinks that explains everything about Derek’s interactions when they first met) he sits on one of the cosy chairs in the corner and watches Derek; how he snuffles into his pillow, his body limp, his feet sticking out the end of the blankets.
and then when Derek wakes up, he reaches across the bed for Stiles and gets a little wrinkle between his brow when he realises he’s not there, but he rolls over onto his back and blinks up at the ceiling. he can smell coffee and Stiles, and there’s no obnoxious alarm going off and — he sits up, getting to his knees when he sees Stiles, and he yawns, stretching out the kinks in his neck and shoulders, knowing that Stiles’ eyes are on him.
and that’s all Stiles can take because he drains the last of his coffee and launches himself at Derek, and Derek catches him, steadies them until he can lay Stiles down, until he can stretch over Stiles and kiss him softly, tasting the coffee in Stiles’ mouth.
they’ve got all the time in the world, and Derek loves knowing that. it’s slow, lazy handjobs in bed. it’s Derek pushing Stiles against the shower wall and rimming him until they almost fall over. it’s putting robes on and ordering room service and eating together with easy conversation and Stiles running his hand up Derek’s thigh because he can, because touching is a comfort, because skin on skin contact is always the thing that settles Derek, no matter where they are.
and then later it’s fucking with the balcony doors open, the sound of the waves outside coming in, the cool sea breeze washing over them as they kiss and lick and fuck and hold each other close.
the one where derek and stiles get their own place, and clothes become a thing of the past. for youshinebrighter21 on her birthday. c:
stiles comes to with the sensation of something rough scratching against his neck, and something rumbling in front of his face. he blinks rapidly a few times, still in a sleepy, confused, stupor, trying to figure out who the hell he is, the way it happens every morning.
the scratching is derek’s beard, his boyfriend pressed up against his side, face tucked into his shoulder. he hums in approval at that, and noses against derek’s hair, before he turns his head to search for the source of the rumbling.
not rumbling- purring. aurora is staring at him with her big yellow eyes and waiting for attention. when he looks at her, the purring only gets louder, and she bats at his face.
nope, nope, much too early for that. cutest kitten in the world or not, stiles is not up for playing until he’s had at least one red bull, and derek’s body up against his is much too warm to consider leaving just yet.
he goes to worm back into the blankets of the bed- except. wait. this isn’t the bed at all.
stiles yawns again and sits up slightly, enough to glance around the living room. did they fall asleep on the floor?
it comes back to him in waves, the night before, spent christening every room of the house. their house.
stiles grins, wide and happy, and flops back onto the hardwood with a thunk, pressing his face into the slope of derek’s shoulder.
it occurs to him, before he drifts back asleep, that they never actually got around to christening the bedroom. but that’s alright. they’ll both be awake again in a couple of hours.
okay but Derek and Stiles on a road trip, with shabby hotel/motel rooms and diners and goofy tourist gifts for their friends. Stiles with his shoes off and his feet out the window as Derek drives. Derek singing along softly to the mixes Stiles made for the trip. Exploring parts of the country they never thought they’d live long enough to see.
And then — then at night, heading back to wherever they’re staying, undressing and fucking on the couch, fucking in the bathroom, on the floor, on the bed. Taking it slow, taking it fast, and everything inbetween. Laying together afterwards, dotting kisses on warm skin, laughing about nothing and everything.
Taking the time to be themselves with each other. Stiles wearing Derek’s shirts and Derek stealing Stiles’ beanies. Letting the days go by as they send updates back home, checking in and making sure everyone knows they’re safe.
Waking up with each other every morning and Stiles being amused each time Derek winces at the sunlight hitting his eyes. Stiles sneaking out for coffee and coming back to cuddles from a grumpy Derek who totally noticed he was gone.
And the sex is important to them, it really is, but sometimes being naked together is about the comfort, the touches, the knowledge that they’re totally at ease with each other.
And on the last night before they head back into Beacon County, Derek kisses the side of Stiles’ head and says “move in with me,” and Stiles smiles at the ceiling, searching for Derek’s hand and squeezing. There’s only one answer he can give.
Stiles was seventeen the first time Derek slid his rough hands up along his bare sides, ghosting them reverently over the lines of Stiles’ ribs. Derek remembered the moment, remembered the constellations of beauty marks upon his pale skin, the shaking nervous breath that flexed Stiles’ chest beneath his hands. He remembered the way Stiles had looked at him, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage, waiting because Derek had stopped.
Because when he touched Stiles, when he smoothed his hands up Stiles’ sides, all he could feel was the glide of Kate’s hands over his own ribs, the feel of her tongue licking from belly to chest, and he had frozen. He couldn’t do that, he couldn’t be Kate, couldn’t fathom corrupting the teen straddled under him. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, not past the fear, the panic.
It was the cool touch of Stiles’ hands upon his that drew him back to the moment. Their eyes met and Stiles knew. Derek had told him, because there was no way he could have kept Kate away from Stiles no matter how much he didn’t deserve the burden of that knowledge. He did deserve to know what he was getting in to, how Derek had been damaged. Derek had had to give him that chance to leave.
“Hey,” Stiles murmured, fingers curling around the edges of Derek’s hands. The concern in his eyes was nearly crushing but his voice was firm. “You’re not Kate, Derek.” You won’t hurt me. “I’m not Kate either,” he added. “Kate’s dead. She’s not coming back to get you. Not either of us, okay?”
Derek had nodded and then leaned down, pressed warm lips to Stiles’. That was the first night he had hesitantly let go of the demons in his past, let Stiles chase them away with warm words and heated touches. The first night he had let Stiles into those haunted spaces, and begun to heal.
Stiles was only seventeen the night he saved Derek from himself.
And of course Stiles shouldn’t be surprised when, two days later, he comes home from the third day of his internship to find the unidentified “mass murderer” in his cheap efficiency studio, lounging on his second-hand couch, reading his Criminal Profiling textbook.
“Seriously, dude?” He yelps, dropping his messenger bag on his foot. “I thought you had grown out of your bedroom creeper ways.”
“Being framed for murder brings it out in me,” Derek replies dryly, snapping the book shut. He stands up, strides toward him, and pushes the heavy book into Stiles’ chest. “And I don’t run funny.”
~*~
Derek has an honest-to-goodness beard now. With some gray hair. He looks much older than he does in the video the FBI has, and Stiles wonders if he would have recognized him if he didn’t know him so well.
They’re sitting across from each other at the tiny craigslist table that serves as Stiles’ desk, updating each other on what they know of the investigation into the “bizarrely feral unsub in the wilderness of North Carolina,” aided significantly by the classified files that Stiles snuck out of the office yesterday.
Their knees keep bumping, and each time they do, their eyes lock for a quick second before they awkwardly shift away. Stiles loosens his tie and pushes the rolled-up sleeves of his buttondown shirt up his forearms, feeling hyperaware of Derek watching him, his still-ridiculous eyebrows bunching together. It’s kinda wild, really, just how familiar the swoop of nervous excitement in his stomach feels, along with the warmth spreading across his cheeks.
“I’m starving,” he says, hoping Derek isn’t paying too much attention to his heartbeat. “We should order some food.”
~*~
“Stiles,” Derek says, all serious-like, while they’re eating pizza.
“Derek,” he answers, aping his tone.
“Thank you.”
“For harboring your fugitive ass again? No problem, big guy.”
“For believing me. You didn’t question me when I said I was framed. You didn’t ask me if I did all the things they said.”
For a moment, Stiles is confused. It honestly hadn’t even occurred to him to question Derek’s innocence. “You are a lot of things, Derek, but a mass murderer is not one of them. It never even crossed my mind that you might be guilty.”
Derek pauses and looks down at his plate for a moment. “I know that you’re risking a lot for me, again. It…it means a lot, is all I’m trying to say.”
He’s looking at him with a familiar unguarded expression, that mix of awestruck understanding and something else that has always made Stiles’ heart race and his stomach drop. “Hey,” Stiles shrugs, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s what I do, right?
Derek smiles softly, dipping his chin down while looking up at him from under his lashes. “Yeah. It is, isn’t it?”
~*~
A bit after midnight, Stiles starts to yawn.
“You should sleep,” Derek says, closing the file he’s been reading.
Stiles nods. “I do have to get up early for another day of trying to figure out how to get you off.”
Derek levels him with a silent glare.
“Trying to figure out how to exonerate you,” Stiles sputters, cheeks on fire.
“I’ll take off.”
“Derek, you’re wanted by the FBI. Do you really think you should be wandering around Quantico?”
“I can take care of myself, Stiles.”
“Yeah well, aren’t you here because you know you don’t have to take care of everything by yourself? Let me help you, okay?”
He stares at him for a long time before he answers. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek, that’s barely more than a loveseat and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. There’s plenty of room for both of us in the bed.”
Derek watches him like he’s trying to puzzle something out; he looks over at Stiles’ cheap couch, then at the comparatively spacious queen size bed in the corner. “Fine.”
~*~
Derek borrows sleep clothes, and Stiles tries not to let it show all over his face, what it does to him to see Derek in his baggy sweatpants and threadbare white t-shirt that’s a little too tight.
He switches off the lights and they lie in bed facing away from each other, each huddling close to their respective edge of the bed. Stiles has no idea how’s he going to sleep – he’s been imagining him in his bed for years now, but he never thought it would happen with Derek as a federally wanted fugitive just as he starts his FBI training.
In hindsight, he supposes, he probably should have figured something like this would happen, given the general fuckery of their lives.
But he finds that, despite the risks he’s taking and the danger they’re in, he’s happy Derek is here. Thrilled, actually. He’s missed him since the day he left Beacon Hills, even though he refused to admit it for a long time, scared about what his longing might mean.
And no matter how messed up everything is right now, it feels right that Derek is here, and he’s grateful to him for that, reassured that they’ll figure this out together.
He rolls over. There’s enough moonlight from the window that Stiles can see the strong lines of his back, can track the muscled curves of his arm with his arms and wonder what it would be like to touch him.
“Derek,” he says quietly.
“Yes, Stiles?”
“Thank you.”
Derek rolls over to face him, bringing him closer to the middle of the bed, which suddenly feels much smaller. “For putting you at risk again because people can’t seem to stop wanting me dead?”
“For trusting me.” Stiles shifts so he can see him better. “For trusting me to help you. It means a lot to me too, that you’d come to me for help. I’m glad you’re here.”
Derek studies him for a long time, like he’s trying to decide something; even though it’s mostly dark, he knows Derek can see him perfectly with his damned wolf eyes, and it makes Stiles feel exposed and vulnerable.
Eventually, Derek slowly moves his hand to the center of the bed, palm up in a silent, gentle invitation.
Stiles accepts, slides his hand into his. Their fingers intertwine, fitting together perfectly. Derek’s hand is warm and strong, his touch amplifying the feelings of relief and calm that his presence brings. Stiles is rapidly realizing that he just might need this, might need Derek, and it’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating.
And, judging the by way Derek’s stern expression eases in to calm repose, and the way his body visibly relaxes, he feels it too, and Stiles smiles, holds his hand tighter.
Stiles cracked his eyes open against the rising sun directly in his face and frowned. He looked around him, and frowned some more. The jeep was parked, empty aside from him and his duvet crunched up in the passenger seat, and there was a wheat field beyond the windshield.
With a massive yawn, Stiles straightened up—or tried to. His back was stiff, his spine popped, and one of his legs was a little numb; his body did not appreciate sleeping in his car these days. He tugged his blanket a little tighter around himself against the chill of the early morning and sat there for a second, shuffling through his memory for an explanation as to why he was sleeping in the front seat of his jeep.
Six finals, moved out of the dorm, late night flight back from DC, went to bed…
Scott.
Scott had definitely been there at one point, he was the one who drove them here, after all.
Wherever here was.
“Scott, what the fuck,” Stiles said to the quiet morning air, knowing that wherever Scott was, he could hear it.
He dug his shoes out from under his blanket and climbed out of the jeep, taking the duvet with him, wrapped around himself like a cape. He was still in his pajamas, the grass was wet with cold dew, the sun was in his eyes, just peeking out over the trees in the distance, and Scott was still nowhere to be found. He was taking his damn blanket.
“Scott!” He called halfheartedly, not all that loud as he shuffled towards the field. They were probably trespassing. “Buddy, pal, what the hell!”
“Hang on!” Scott’s voice called back, and Stiles looked everywhere else around him before realizing that Scott was yelling at him from up a tree.
Right.
Stiles yawned and squinted out at the wheat.
It was barely six in the morning, they’d driven three hours to get there, specifically for this field of wheat, and Stiles still had no idea why. It looked like an average field of wheat from where he was standing, but then he wasn’t up a massive tree with a vantage point or super alpha vision, which was Scott’s current situation. Twisted up around the trunk for dear life with his phone out, taking pictures.
Of wheat.
“Why are we here again?” Stiles called up to him. He hadn’t bothered to ask when Scott pulled him out of bed at 3am and threw both Stiles and his blankets into his own jeep. All that registered at the time was that it was Scott and he didn’t seem to be panicking, and Stiles was exhausted after finals and the trip back to Beacon Hills, so he went right back to sleep for the drive.
Scott focused on taking pictures for a minute, then called back,
“Crop circles! It popped up on your news alert last night!”
Oh right, that ping on his computer Stiles had woken up just enough to ignore and go right back to sleep. Because crop circles were stupid.
This entire field trip was stupid.
He was still half asleep, it was cold out at the end of April, and he was standing on the edge of a wheat field in his pajamas and wrapped in his duvet. He hitched it a little tighter around himself to keep the brisk air off his neck.
“Right, and why are we here again? I don’t care about crop circles.”
Crop circles were the one phenomena that he didn’t have to care about, so he gladly didn’t, because they were literally always made by assholes with way too much spare time pulling pranks.
This time Scott didn’t answer, because he was starting the careful climb down. At least he was careful until he hit some arbitrary height he deemed non-lethal and just jumped.
Stiles squinted against the rising sun, just high enough to be too bright.
Stupid werewolves.
“We’re here because this isn’t a crop circle,” Scott explained as he stomped over through the long grass, focused on his phone. “I checked it out last night. There was lightning here the same night this appeared, but no rain, and I couldn’t really tell from the blurry pictures online, but it didn’t look quite right, something was off. And if that something is off, and if it’s what I think it is, and I’m pretty sure it is, then I wouldn’t have time to go back home to get you.”
Stiles squint-glared at him this time. “Scott, do you have any idea how little sleep I’ve gotten in the last three weeks? Clear and concise answers, buddy.”
Scott finally held out his phone, showing whichever picture he decided was the best. Stiles squint-glared at that and waited for his foggy brain to catch up. When it did, his heart skipped a beat.
Burned into the wheat field, in a way Stiles was pretty sure was not normal for crop circles, were two concentric circles.
McCall Pack.
“I think it’s Kira,” Scott said, clear and concise. “I think she needs help.”
Stiles had survived high school. And then he’d even survived college and all the unrestricted access to alcohol and young adult freedom that came with it, not to mention the rogue succubus in his second year. He and Derek had finally gotten their act together and admitted they should be together after Derek turned up at Stiles’ dorm in his first year and wolfed out at the scent of other people in the room. Stiles had never slept with them; they were never broad enough in the shoulder, never had clear enough eyes, never the same gentle soul that he was quietly waiting for.
One successful graduation ceremony later, and a wild pack-and-family only party at the new Hale pack house in the preserve, Derek sat with a sleepy headed Stiles on the deck looking out into the forest. He handed over the envelop with the tickets in it wordlessly, just sipping his coffee as Stiles opened it up and comprehended what he was seeing. The exultant outburst that resulted in birds bursting out of the trees, squawking and flying away from the sudden noise, brought a rare grin to Derek’s face.
Stiles had never been out of the country, so Derek took him to Australia. He thought twice about it on the flight, but arriving there and experiencing everything there for the first time with Stiles was one of the best experiences of his life.
The cosy beach bungalow they rented became their little home, their surf lessons stopped being a comedy of errors and became a competition between the two of them, their relationship became indulgent and intimate again after Stiles’ absence at college. No pack responsibilities and no outside obligations meant they could just bask in each others company; in bed, on the beach, across a bowl of perfect tropical fruit, as they watch the full moon sink below the horizon and Derek hides his glowing eyes by nuzzling Stiles’ neck. They don’t stop smiling for the entire month.
Derek books their next trip before they even leave.
Days later Derek still feels guilty. He hates seeing Stiles that way – hurt and trying to hide it, trying to be stoic because of him.
Derek sees Stiles walking down the sidewalk (and it’s not stalking, Derek’s just sitting in the Camero outside of Stiles’ house to keep an eye on things, like any good Alpha would). Stiles reaches into his pocket for his keys and Derek hears a small, sad sigh. A piece of his shriveled, aching heart breaks off and plunges into his stomach.
Since that night, the memories come too easily. Derek sees Kate naked in the twilight; feels her fingers trail up and down his ribs; hears her voice, low, as she murmurs in his ear. He tells her he loves her and she smiles, wicked and wide, and climbs over him again.
Derek’s out of the car before he has time to second guess it, and Stiles flails into the doorjamb when he hops onto the porch. The sudden acrid spike of fear takes hold of Stiles’ normal scent, and Derek rubs his nose as though he can wipe it away along with his guilt.
“Um, Derek, dude, I’m sure the looming thing is great for the pack but personal space is, you know, a thing. For humans.”
Derek frowns and grumbles, “I’m not looming,” even though the way his body deflates is just a little contradictory.
“You’re like a puffer fish,” Stiles says, and while the scent of fear is fading, the lightness is gone from his voice and his face is tired, strained.
Derek rubs the back of his neck. This was a mistake.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “I’ll just…” and he turns to leave.
He gets one foot on the first step when Stiles groans, loud and exasperated. “Derek, I get it. Okay? And I’m not gonna get into it, but last I checked, I get to choose what to call whatever the hell I’m feeling.”
When Derek turns around, Stiles’ lips are pursed and his nostrils flared and he looks so fucking perfect even when he’s irritated. Derek’s heart shrinks two more sizes while the lump in his throat grows double.
He swallows. It doesn’t help. There’s nothing comfortable about hard truths.
“Feelings like that don’t matter when you’re sixteen.”
Stiles’ face softens and Derek watches, unsure, as he reaches out a hand. What Stiles does, what Derek is not expecting, is take Derek’s hand. He watches as Stiles intertwines their fingers – gently, like he’s trying not to spook the Alpha of Beacon Hills. Derek looks back up as Stiles tugs him forward, skin warm and heart beating steady.
“Come on,” Stiles says, opening the door. “Have a sandwich and tell me all the reasons they don’t matter. Then promise me you’ll listen when I tell you all the reasons she was wrong.”
shealwaysreads 