Derek having never thought of Stiles romantically or sexually until one night he has a very vivid, very vivid, sex dream about Stiles. The kind of dream where he wakes up drenched in sweat and come. The shower and do the sheets kind of come.
Derek blames the fact that he hasn’t gotten off in forever. But, then of course there’s suddenly being all consumed by this dream. And it’s one of those ones that sticks around. Every tiny detail.
Derek starts thinking about whether or not it be like it was in his dream and he is suddenly noticing things, like Stiles’ lips, and hands, and forearms.
Finally, Derek ends up telling someone about the dream without naming names. It gets back to Stiles who keeps needling him for who it is. Eventually, Derek would give in and just tell Stiles it was him.
If Stiles were a peacock he’d be preening pretty much every time he sees Derek after that. It’s pretty insufferable. So, of course Derek decides they should just have sex. Move on.
Stiles thinks he’s kidding but he agrees and he shows up later, “I’m not old enough to bring wine, so I brought a bottle of lube instead.”
Derek is definitely convinced it’s just physical. He’s sort of expecting it to have only ever been attracted to Dream Stiles. But then of course it’s better. He’s not sure why it does it for him that real Stiles is goofier in bed than the dream version.
Plot twist though there’s no dramatic miscommunication. Afterwards, Stiles turns to Derek and asks, “so is this like an I stay kinda thing, or is it an I should…go kind of thing?”
And Derek asks, “What do you want to do?.”
Stiles’ toes find Derek’s and he says, “I want to do what you want.” Derek stares at Stiles in the bed next to him. His arms are tucked underneath his pillow and his hair is a mess. His scent is heavy in the air and Derek presses forward and kisses him.
Stiles makes a soft noise of surprise before opening up underneath him, toes curling against Derek’s. Derek pulls back.
“So, like you want me to stay?” Stiles asks, eyes lidded.
“Yes, Stiles,” Derek sighs.
After that they keep sleeping together. Derek gives up the idea that it’s just physical after the first time. He frets after Stiles a lot more, which he used to do a lot before, in retrospect. Stiles often needs fretting over, it’s not Derek’s fault.
The other day he literally almost fell into the fountain at the Mall.
He really gives up the idea for sure definitely the first time he turns down a date from someone Derek’s pretty sure is a normal well intended human, for once.
The next time they have sex, Derek tells Stiles this, post coitus.
“The barista at that coffee place in town asked me out.”
“Oh…” Stiles says, his breath just evening out.
“I said no,” Derek assures him. Derek is relieved by Stiles’ relief. “I don’t really like the idea of dating anyone that isn’t…” Derek says, he turns his head to look at Stiles, “you.”
Stiles’ grin is wicked and consuming. “You like me,” Stiles teases. “That’s embarrassing.”
Better yet, Derek gives it to Stiles on their anniversary. Let it be known, Derek Hale is one romantic motherfucker, even if he gets a little shy and grumpy about it sometimes (still wary about putting himself out there). He often looks like a five year old when he presents Stiles with flowers in the beginning of their relationship; head down, mumbling about how “he just found these on his way home” (even though they are clearly special order flowers).
(Over the years, he does manage to embrace his romantic tendencies, knowing he’s finally found a person that won’t cause him to regret them. it’s something that has him smiling for no reason at all, some days. That knowledge. Mostly because Stiles is stupidly, overly romantic in return; Stiles’ idea of romance might lean towards the more obscure side of things but he’s still a romantic dork and Derek treasures every gesture, every present, Stiles gives to him. He even has a box for the smaller trinkets; surprise cinema tickets, pictures, a couple of badly written poems, a figurine of a wolf Stiles picked up on their first trip to Rome together.)
Stiles wears the apron all the time, very proudly (for years), and despite the fact Derek rolls his eyes whenever Stiles points to it and shakes his hips (sometimes way too seductively for first thing in the morning: “Stiles, you’re going to make us late”), Stiles knows the moment his back is turned Derek will be sitting there, smiling with a little awed look on his face. He knows this because Erica and Kira have told him several times that Derek does this a lot, just looks at him; it’s like Derek is not even aware anyone might be watching him when his attention is on Stiles, and isn’t that something that just makes Stiles’ insides melt.
His boyfriend, his sourwolf, is adorableand Stiles knows he will never stop finding him adorable, grumpy frown and all.
“Because I love you!” Stiles shouts, and then immediately sucks in a hard breath, eyes bulging wide in horror and disbelief. Did he really just…
Derek’s own eyes go wide as well, though the rest of his face remains carefully frozen. Scott looks like he swallowed a bug. So yep, Stiles really just. He did that. In front of basically everyone he knows.
“I mean.” He starts and stops. His dad’s got an unimpressed eyebrow raised in his direction. Cora looks like she’s fighting back mean laughter. This is not the direction any of them probably expected this newest argument between Stiles and Derek to go, but none of them seem exactly shocked by it.
Except for Derek.
“Okay, so.” Stiles shakes it off and launches back in on the topic at hand. “Tabling that embarrassing outburst for the time being, I’m still right and Derek still shouldn’t be the one who plays bait for this asshole.”
“Why, because you just can’t bear to live without him?” Isaac smirks, rolling his eyes.
Stiles grits his teeth and digs his fingers into his thighs to keep from punching the douchebag. “Because the warlock is expecting it. We need the element of surprise on our side here, and Derek playing martyr yet again won’t give us that.”
The group easily falls back into battle planning mode then, and even if they don’t necessarily forget Stiles’ heated confession, they’ve got bigger fish to fry at the moment and they all know it. Derek included, who shakes his head minutely when Stiles starts talking, and then pipes up with an idea for a new plan as though nothing ever happened.
Stiles is outwardly grateful for Derek’s composure, but internally bereft. He can feel a hollow point in the center of his chest appear and slowly grow.
Later, when the blood has been shed, and the bad guy has been slain, and Scott is offering up his Hallmark card platitudes to those who need it as they shuffle their way towards a shower and a bed. Later, when they’ve all somehow survived another life-or-death go around with another big bad and don’t have the energy to wonder if the next one will finally be their last one…
Later. Derek falls into step beside Stiles, and asks, without looking at him, “Did you mean it?”
Stiles rolls his shoulders and stuffs his hands firmly into his pockets. He lets his eyes obsess over the grooves in the battered blacktop they’re walking across to get to their respective vehicles. “Don’t ask stupid questions, Derek.”
“Don’t tell me you’re in love with me in the middle of a fight then.”
Stiles stops walking and turns on him, throwing his arms out into the air uselessly. “Fine! Shit. I’m sorry, alright? What do you want from me?”
Derek purses his lips thoughtfully for a moment. Then bites down on the tiniest of smiles and steps forward, into Stiles’ personal space. “I just wish I had been brave enough to say it first is all.”
Stiles blinks. Forgets how to breathe. Blinks again. “Wait. What?”
Derek shrugs one shoulder and pretends to study his shoes while unsubtly inching even closer. “I’m just saying. We should probably take turns with the romantic declarations, or I’ll never actually get the chance to tell you I love you too.”
Either Stiles passed out at some point or this is a very crass prank.
But Derek takes his hand then and holds it like it’s sacred. Like it’s normal.
“Holy shit, pinch me,” Stiles whispers.
Derek winks, and looks like a complete dork while he does it. “Maybe later.”
Derek growled. Partly due to the sensation of Stiles slipping his tongue underneath his foreskin to lap at his sensitive cockhead, and partly due to the frustration of letting himself get caught by the scrawny little twink in the first place.
He should’ve known better than to spy on Stiles when the kid was showering after lacrosse, but he had waited until everyone had already filtered out before he even started undressing. It was like a cliché porno, and Derek played his part perfectly. He stood hidden behind one of the locker doors, watching Stiles through the holes as he casually walked around in a skimpy jockstrap, exposing his ass for Derek to see.
On his way to the shower, Stiles drops a can of deodorant on the ground. He bends over to pick his up and accidentally shows off his pucker to derek. Smooth. The kid shaves, huh. Derek feels his cock harden in his pants despite his mental objection to it. God, he was gross. Spying on Stiles and getting off on nit.
He continued to gaze at Stiles. Derek guesses he has a voyeur kink now. He moves to the edge of the showers when Stiles isn’t looking, continuing to gaze at the human’s naked, wet body. He’s completely naked, if he would just turn around a little…
Suddenly Stiles lobs a small vial at the ground near Derek’s feet, and a purple cloud rises up. Shit, Wolfsbane. Derek curses and accidentally breathes in the sour smelling cloud. Suddenly he feels lightheaded and collapses onto the locker room floor.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………
He doesn’t now how long it was until he woke up, but Stiles hair was still damn so he assumes that he wasn’t out for long. Stiles looked very smug. Derek supposes that the Wolfsbane was made to incapacitate, not kill. Derek tried to stutter out an excuse as to why he was spying on Stiles, only to realise that he was in his underwear, and his hands were bound above him.
“Stiles… what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Derek says, trying his best to be intimidated. Stiles is still only clad in his jockstrap, and damn Derek wish he didn’t look so fuckable. The last thing he needed was to pop a boner in front of Stiles.
“Well, I could ask the same thing of you, buddy.” Stiles smirks, “I mean, that tent in your pants when you passed out was a pretty clear indicator of what your intentions were.”
“What… no… I wouldn’t–” Derek stammers. This is bad.
“Hush, I get it.” Stiles says, “You’re too broody to go out and actually fuck someone so the slightest glance at a naked guy gets you rock hard.” Stiles straddles the bench, giving Derek a clear view of his bulge. This is very bad. “You dont’ have to be ashamed about it…” Stiles puts a hand on Derek’s thigh.
And… Derek’s cock betrays him. Straight up like a flagpole. There’s even a tiny wet patch forming where the head of the werewolf’s cock is pressing against the fabric.
“Lemme help with that,” Stiles says, still looking extremely smug as he pulls Derek’s cock out through the slip in his boxers.
“Stiles, don’t!–” Derek shouts but it immediately transforms into a low moan as Stiles takes the head of Derek’s cock into his mouth, moving so that he was lying on his stomach on the bench, his ass clearly visible to Derek.
He gently fondles Derek’s fuzzy balls, moving downwards and rubbing his hand against the man’s hard taint. He even moves further south and rubs a finger against Derek’s pucker. The werewolf growls, trying to dissuade Stiles from trying to finger him. Stiles making him cum from a blowjob was embarrassing enough, he didn’t need to be moaning as the twink pounds against his prostate.
Thankfully, Stiles chuckled and withdrew his hand, going back to throating his cock. Derek was going to cum. This was terrifying in Derek’s mind. Stiles hadn’t even been sucking his cock for 30 seconds yet, and Derek felt the indescribable need to blow his load down Stiles’ throat. He clenches his teeth and growled low, flexing his toes against the locker room tiles as he desperately tried not to cum.
Stiles didn’t slow down, in fact, he seemed to pick up speed sensing that Derek was about to blow his wad. He throated deeper and moaned louder. Derek’s eyes crossed over and he began making desperate threats at Stiles in order to try and get him to stop. Stiles just kept pumping his lips up and down.
And then he did the worst thing Derek could imagine. He angled his ass up so Derek could barely see his tight, pink hole. His tight, pink hole which was now stretched around a dark plug. All Derek could think about was how he wanted that to be his cock inside Stiles.
And he came. Holy fuck, did he come. He let out a roar as he balls drew up and he began pumping jets of cum into Stiles’ throat. Stiles pulled up and eventually began to just suckle at the head of Derek’s cock, drawing out the last few trickles of werewolf jizz as Derek spasmed and shuddered.
“Okay… you’ve had your fun…” Derek gasps, “Let me go.”
Stiles just laughs, “Oh no, Derek.” He reaches down and pulls the plug from his ass, Derek’s cock takes attention instantly. Stupid sexy Stiles.
“Fun’s just starting, stud.” Stiles reattaches his lips tot he head of Derek’s cock.
The first time was when he woke up, the sun streaming in through a crack between the curtains, Derek’s breathing soft and even next to him.
This can’t be real, Stiles thought. This life, this happiness, it can’t be real.
He started panicking. Derek woke up and pulled Stiles against his chest. Together they counted, first Stiles’ fingers, then Derek’s. Derek smiled and shook his head when Stiles told him it was because he couldn’t believe how happy he was.
Sometimes he still needs that reassurance, that after all the shit they’ve gone through, after all the shit he’s done, he gets to be happy. And over time, it even becomes a small gesture, for both him and Derek, to show the other how happy they are. So he counts his fingers when he slides under the covers next to Derek, counts them when they’re watching television, counts them any time he realizes he’s truly, ridiculously happy.
He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, willing the coffee machine to go faster, at seven am on a Sunday morning. It would be terrible if not for Derek’s humming drifting through the house as he makes the bed, and the pitter-patter of small feet racing towards the kitchen.
Lily climbs into his lap, and he leans back to accommodate her.
‘Are we counting?’ she asks, pointing at his hands, lying palms down on the kitchen counter.
‘You want to count together?’ he asks.
Lily nods and bends over his left hand. She press her little pointer finger against his pinkie and says, ‘One.’
When they get to ten, she turns to him with a brilliant smile, presses a kiss against his cheek, and slides off his lap.
‘Love you, daddy!’ she yells, disappearing into the hallway. You’d think it was a small elephant and not a five year-old pounding up the stairs.
‘Love you, too!’ he shouts after her.
The coffee is finally done and he pours himself and Derek cup. As he sets out breakfast, he privately counts his fingers again, a smile on his face.
“Are you going to get in?” Stiles asked, peeling out of his last shirt, his words a little slurry around the edges. “In a- a- a-” He paused, trying rather unsuccessfully to shake his hand free of his sleeve. He started laughing uncontrollably and collapsed to the floor to work on his shoes. “The water, are you?”
“No,” Derek groused, pointedly not looking when Stiles flopped onto his back and began to shimmy out of his soaked pants. Black slime coated almost every square inch of the floor. “This is your bath, not mine.”
“Mine,” Stiles echoed, now just lying on the floor in a puddle of black, his pale skin coated head to foot in the gunk. “This is not my house.”
“Yes,” Derek agreed, as patiently as he could, checking the water’s temperature before turning off the tap. It had to be extra hot to affect the stuff. “This is the clinic.”
Deaton had explained that even minimal contact with the ichorous substance gave a contact high. Stiles had been practically drenched in the stuff when they had killed it. Luckily it was not deadly or even toxic- which was the problem. Someone had been keeping the creature as a pet, drawing out the fluid and selling it, and it had escaped three days ago to wreak havoc.
Very, very unfortunately, Derek had drawn the short straw for ensuring Stiles got cleaned up and came down from the high safely. Isaac, Boyd, and Erica were taking care of disposal of the body while Scott and Allison swung by Allison’s house to return weapons and report to her father. Deaton had been kind enough – or perhaps had enough self preservation – to give Derek the key to the clinic so he could get Stiles washed up away from his father’s questions.
“Come on,” Derek said gently, slipping from the edge of the tub to crouch at Stiles’ side. It was, he reflected, a very good thing that werewolves were not susceptible to the substance’s effects. “You gotta get cleaned up.” The effects wouldn’t wear off until every drop of the ichor was gone.
Stiles lifted his head, looking all the way down his lean form. “Oh, no, no that’s too far,” he told Derek, head falling back with an audible clunk he was probably going to feel in a few hours. “Wow, this is the best floor ever. Do you think I could take it home with me?”
“No,” Derek said with a sigh. Looked like this was going to have to be the hard way. He shifted, kneeling beside Stiles, and grabbed at his wrists to haul him up.
Despite that they slipped and slid a bit, Derek managed to get a very naked Stiles upright and across the three feet to the tub. For a second Stiles stood very still, holding tightly onto the edge of it like he was going to resist going in. Then he tipped forward and faceplanted directly into the basin so quickly Derek had to scramble to keep him from drowning.
“Hoooooo!!!!” Stiles shouted the second his mouth was above the surface, water sluicing away the ichor clinging to his skin. “It’s hot, Derek! This is really hot, why is it so hot? Oh my god, I’m melting!” He started grabbing at the black liquid coming off his skin.
Closing his eyes, Derek counted to three. Then five. Then ten, for good measure, and when he opened them again, Stiles had fallen very, very still and was staring wide eyed into the middle distance. It was not exactly an improvement, but at least he’d stopped thrashing, slopping water and ichor all over the floor and flinging it onto the walls and- and was that- on the ceiling?
“Stiles, how did you- you know what, nevermind,” Derek grumbled, reaching for the spray nozzle.
This setup was supposed to be for cleaning dogs, but it would work just as well for ornery, tripping humans. He began to run the spray over Stiles’ hair, watching the black give way to brown. When the tub had filled completely, Derek pulled the plug and let it drain. Diluted like this with water, it wouldn’t hurt the general populace; at worst, they’d all have a really good day soon.
Stiles’ eyes slid closed, and he relaxed into the gentle touches Derek used to turn him this way and that, to get at the last of the ichor still clinging to strange places like inside of his ears and between his fingers and- well, at least Stiles was unlikely to remember any of this very well tomorrow.
By the time he had gotten the last of it, Stiles had turned to putty in his hands, making a soft, pleasant humming noise that might have been purring on a cat. Derek swallowed hard, trying to keep it together. He still needed to get Stiles someplace to wait out the high, and get this place cleaned up so no one else would be affected.
Difficult to think of anything beyond the way Stiles pressed himself into Derek’s touches. “Feels good,” Stiles murmured, unwilling or unable to keep his eyes open. “You should touch me more.”
“Tomorrow,” Derek mumbled back, prodding Stiles to his feet. The floor was still covered in ichor, so Derek just leaned over and scooped a completely unresisting Stiles into his arms. Immediately, Stiles looped his own arms around Derek’s neck and burrowed his nose against Derek’s shoulder. “If you still want me to touch you tomorrow, I will.”
“Okay,” Stiles agreed muzzily.
He wouldn’t remember. No one else had. Still…
He allowed himself a small smile, and a measure of hope. Stiles had never been one for following the rules, after all.
Sterek fic where Stiles gets Derek drunk for the first time.
Stiles is more than curious about what Derek would be like with a few drinks in him. He has his suspicions but there’s also the possibility of an even sour Derek or an angry Derek.
Stiles’ suspicions are confirmed when Derek has smiled at him three times in the last hour. Three different smiles.
One is the kind Stiles gets more often these days, the one when Derek humors him. The one that reminds Stiles of Derek at sixteen, before the fire.
The second is the fake grin, blinding and breathtaking, that Derek uses when he’s turning on the flirt. Derek catches him in a lie. They’re sitting around Derek’s coffee table with the scrabble board between them (Drunk Derek also has a surprisingly good vocabulary) When Derek leans forward towards Stiles a little too far, slapping his tiles down with unnecessary force, clearly very proud of whatever word he’s made:
“Sex…” Stiles sighs, tallying up the points. Derek is winning. Stiles can’t think of words at the best of time let alone pretty drunk.
“You want to have sex with me, don’t you, Stiles?” Derek asks dramatically.
“Jesus chrysanthemums, Derek,” Stiles says, he thinks it’s more of a slur, “No I don’t,” Stiles ducks his head and pretends to do math.
“Your nose is growing,” Derek says. “Or maybe something e–”
“–you do not finish that sentence, Derek,” Stiles interrupts. Derek just leers at him, which is so much worse when he doesn’t have his stupidly sexy aviators on.
The third one is by far the worst of all.
They’re outside on the balcony, laying on a blanket that Stiles thinks is probably too expensive to be laid out on a filthy ground. Stiles tries to point this out but Derek looks devastated and says, “I like the way it feels.”
So, they’re laying side by side on it and staring up at the stars when Stiles asks, “You could have gotten drunk before, but you said you didn’t want to,” Stiles says, “what changed?”
“You asked,” Derek replies, eyes on the sky.
“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, “wait what?”
Derek laughs at him before rolling over onto his side. Stiles mirrors the movement. “I never wanted to drink alone, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else,” Derek tells him, easy. Stiles’ mouth is open he thinks.
“Why?” Stiles asks, fascinated. Derek’s brow furrows adorably, and Stiles reaches out a hand to brush his thumb across it. He pulls his hand back quickly and says, “sorry, dude.”
But Derek just smiles at him. Stiles has seen this smile before, once, and he doesn’t think he was supposed to. This is the part where Derek usually ducks his head, like he’s protecting himself from too much affection.
Except, this time he doesn’t. He’s looking at Stiles in a way that makes his heart stutter in his chest. “Oh,” Stiles says.
“We’ve all made some real bad interpersonal choices in the past, but statistically speaking you’ve never given me a reason not to trust you,” Derek says.
Stiles flushes, “yeah, well same to you,” he stutters out, flustered.
“Not really,” Derek admits. Stiles laughs, hysterically. Derek just smiles that smile at him. It makes Stiles sober enough to lean into Derek’s space and say soft and private,
“When we’re sober, and if it’s still okay, do you think, maybe I could ask you out?”
Fic where Stiles and Derek meet up on the road back to Beacon Hills. Stiles picks Derek up from the bus station in his jeep and they make the drive back together.
They end up at a crappy motel sharing a cramped and miserable queen sized bed. Their shoulders are touching. Stiles is wearing an FBI t-shirt, Derek is bare chest.
They’ve been catching up. Derek tells Stiles is hair isn’t as atrocious as it used to be. Stiles tells Derek he’s getting decrepit and counts his silver beard hairs. Eventually though they probably talk for real. Stiles tells Derek about his FBI program excitedly and Derek tells Stiles about the month he spent in Peru, shows him a picture of himself in a pack of alpacas (which Stiles immediately forwards to his phone).
They’re only a day out from Beacon Hills, they’ll be there by this time the next night. Stiles says to Derek, staring up at the ceiling, “we could be dead tomorrow night.”
Derek turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, because what else is new. “Just like old times.”
“Yea,” Stiles says, drawing it out at the end in that way that says something else is coming. He doesn’t disappoint. “Except, for new times sake I think we should definitely consider having sex.”
“Should we?” Derek asks, still looking at him.
“I mean, I already have, and decided yes, we should,” Stiles tells him, “so really the ball is in your court here.” Thing is Stiles is almost sure of Derek’s answer. He rolls over onto his side and looks at Derek.
There’s a brief moment of silence where Stiles thinks maybe he’s wrong before Derek is kissing him. Stiles falls against the bed and pulls Derek towards him.
There’s not much talking after that, unless of course you count panting, quiet expletives, Derek whimpering Stiles’ name when he gets the third finger in.
When Stiles finally gets his dick in him, Derek pulls Stiles down on top of him, draped over his back. Stiles has a surprising amount of stamina but when he gets really close he moans into the back of Derek’s ear, “can I come in you?”
Derek tightens around Stiles’ cock before he can verbally say yes. Stiles smirks into Derek’s neck and does. Stiles returns the favor though when he sucks Derek off.
They don’t talk about it, because of the whole ‘we could die’ thing. But they hold hands for most of the last hour of the ride. And when they don’t die, when Stiles finds Derek in the fray he pushes past a colleague to pull him to safety himself.
Stiles had a little bit tried to tell himself the night before was for fun. To satisfy a teenage fantasy the eve before battle. But he knew it was bullshit then and he’s too tired and sweaty and hungry and bleedy now to care. Because they’re alive.
“I’m not letting you go,” Stiles tells Derek, teeth gritted.
“I know,” Derek grimaces, in pain.
“No,” Stiles says, because he’s sure Derek doesn’t. “I mean ever. I mean I’ll put a ring on it, a handcuff, a leash,” Stiles tells him.
“Stiles-”
“-a subcutaneous chip that will let me always keep track of you.” When they’ve finally stopped by the perimeter of police and FBI, Derek grabs hold of Stiles’ face.
“I love you too,” Derek says.
“Oh good, you got that,” Stiles nods. “I love you. Big love.“
Stiles would totally do that. He would open the window, Derek asking what’s he’s doing, ‘I’m gonna have some fun, Der’ ‘What do you mean fun? Your fun is me getting arrested by one of your dads deputies!’ Stiles leans out of the window, starts waving at people they pass by, ‘Stiles get in the car!’
Stiles starts shouting greetings, and ‘Nice shirt’ at people and waves almost manically at anyone that waves or greets him back.
‘Get in the car, NOW!’ Derek pulls at Stiles leg until he’s fully in the car again. ‘What if your-’ They hear a siren blip twice and Derek sees the light in the rearview mirror and pulls over and then glares at Stiles as he gets his licence and registration papers out.
‘Evening, Mr. Hale.’ Derek freezes and his glare turns into a slightly frightened expression, Parrish he had no trouble with, Grimes he had no issues with, but Sheriff John Stilinski was more than just the law around here. He was also Dereks boyfriend-of-almost-two-days father. With a swallow Derek turned to John.
‘Sheriff Stilinski.’ ‘Hiya Dad.’ Stiles waved, not looking even slightly guilty about anything. The brat. ‘How’s your evening going?’ ‘It was going wonderfully until not only Mrs. Sanches but also Hillary and Duch called me about my son hanging out of the window of his boyfriends car.’ At this Stiles flinched. ‘Yeah. So son why don’t you say goodbye to Derek and get in my cruiser.’ ‘But-’ ‘I’m gonna talk to Derek for a bit and I will deal with you later.’ Stiles dares to kiss Dereks cheek and says a quiet goodbye and leaves the car, Derek is not sure where this is going but the next thing out of John Stilinskis mouth was not it. ‘Derek, son, if or lets be honest here, when, my son does something like this again don’t hesitate to just stop and leave him at the curb. Or just drive down to the station and he can stay a few hours and do some papperwork instead.’
‘Sir?’ ‘I know my son, Derek, I am not gonna charge you or give you a ticket for something I am sure you tried to stop-’ Derek nods. ‘when it’s my son doing whatever it is.’John pauses to give Derek a moment before continuing. ‘I’m expecting you over for dinner sometime this weekend, alright?’ Derek can only nod and is still sitting there 10 minutes later when Stiles texts him ‘So my dad just had a shovel talk with me, for you. So I guess he likes you?!’
Derek was alright with this, now he just needed to figure out what to bring to dinner this weekend.
OH MY GOD I WASNT EXPECTING THIS!! THANK YOU FOR MAKING THIS REAL
You’re very welcome, I wasn’t even gonna write something more than just that I loved this idea and then all of a sudden I had written all of it XD ❤ Glad you liked it.
Thanks for getting me to write something, been a while.
You hit me at exactly the right time because I was just finishing this:
Just picture Derek waking up late on a quiet Sunday morning, pulling on Stiles’ worn FBI shirt in a sleepy haze, and shuffling out to the kitchen where there’s a mug of fresh coffee waiting for him. Stiles is making breakfast and just lets him putter around in the background while he wakes up–he still finds a half-asleep Derek impossibly endearing, and if he can avoid waking him up fully, he does. Every chance he gets. It’s still something of a novelty that Derek doesn’t jerk awake at the slightest movement or creaking floorboard.
In this particular future, they’ve got a house up in the mountains overlooking Beacon Hills, and Derek likes to shuffle out onto the deck to drink his coffee and read the paper when he’s conscious enough. It usually takes a few tries to get both the sliding door and the screen unlocked and open, but he gets there eventually. Stiles just lets it happen, however long it takes.
When breakfast is ready and on the table, he follows Derek outside and hugs him from behind so he hook his chin over his shoulder and look out at the city. There’s a chilly breeze because it’s moving into fall, but with Derek in his arms blocking the wind, he’s still warm.
He presses kisses to Derek’s neck and stubbly jaw, and runs his hands up under the front of his own shirt, and marvels at the extra space through the chest and shoulders. Derek’s eased up on his workouts over the years, the further from danger and memories they got, and he’s not soft by any means, just less obsessive with being prepared for an attack of any kind. He doesn’t feel like he has to be a physical wall against any and all threats, not anymore.
There are good days and bad, of course there are bad days with everything they’ve been through in life, but the weekends are always theirs. The weekends are for waking up late and having real breakfast that’s not a rushed piece of toast in the car on the way into the Sacramento field office, and half-asleep coffee on the deck while the city comes alive.
They’ll probably go back to bed after they eat–maybe have some lazy and playful sex if they’re in the mood. Maybe they’ll just spoon and doze into the afternoon, because even though Stiles loves being the little spoon when he sleeps, he also loves holding Derek in his arms while the sun’s light lazily inches across their bedroom.
“Breakfast’s ready,” he murmurs quietly, and presses a kiss to Derek’s shoulder before pulling him back into the house. Derek’s eyes still aren’t open all the way, be he willingly goes where Stiles tugs him, knowing he’ll never steer him wrong.
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