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Grin Like a Madman and Dance

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Why Stiles thought playing tourist was a good idea, he has no clue.

He grits his teeth and glares, betrayed, up at the sky as it opens up into an immediate and unapologetic downpour. No gentle drizzle for him. No siree.

His rental car is still several blocks away, and he's torn for a moment about whether he wants to try to make a mad dash for it anyway, or find some place to wait the rain out.

There is a Starbucks right across the street...The idea of a hot coffee is pretty damn appealing too, but it also seems like the few other idiots who are out on the street with him, all have the same idea. As he watches, a man and a woman hit the door to the coffee shop at exactly the same time and begin jostling aggressively to get inside, effectively putting the line pretty damn near out the door.

Coffee? Good! Being crowded into a small space with a hoard of wet, grumpy people…

Stiles sighs in resignation, and pulls his jacket up over his head. It doesn't have a hood though, so pulling it up that far causes his shirt to ride up with it, exposing a sliver of his back to the driving rain and autumn chill. He shivers at the bite of cold, and immediately wonders if it was worth the effort, but finally decides that he's already committed, so he might as well deal with it. And damnit, at least he's keeping his hair dry.

He only manages to make it another block down the road like this, sprinting between awnings when he can, when a lightning bolt zigzags directly overhead. It’s followed immediately by a rip-clap of thunder so loud that his hindbrain takes over for a second, and he jumps about a foot in the air.

He’s not proud of it, but after the shit he’s been through in his life, he sort of has a hate/hate relationship with sudden….anything.

His fight or flight instincts have him searching for a way out of the storm out of reflex, and his gaze finally lands on a storefront about fifty feet down from him. The artsy, metal-worked “OPEN” side looks incredibly inviting, and he’s slipping gratefully inside in a matter of seconds.

The sudden absence of the pounding rain leaves his ears ringing. He takes a deep breath, and slowly lowers his jacket back into place on his shoulders, and of course his hair is wet anyway, and the only thing he has to show for his effort is a crick in his bad shoulder.

Water drips down in huge droplets onto the white tile floor, and he’s pretty sure that he is currently the only witness to the creation of Lake Stilinski. He spares a second to hope whoever owns this…it looks like an art gallery? And shit, these places are usually pretty damn nice, but he can only hope that whoever they are, they're at least a little sympathetic.

“Hello?” he calls out after a moment of silence. He can’t immediately see anyone, and he thinks the place might be empty, although the door had definitely been unlocked.

Stiles shifts from foot to foot. He’s afraid to track water any further into the gallery, but a quick glance over his shoulder tells him that going back outside isn't an option either. If anything, the storm has only gotten worse.

“Just a second,” a male voice finally yells from somewhere in the back, and then Stiles is not alone in the gallery anymore.

He can’t breathe for a second, and his brain goes abruptly silent, like it can’t compute what he’s seeing. The man who steps out into the gallery is tall and broad shouldered. Paint is spattered across his hands and clothes, and there’s a particularly distracting smear of crimson across a jaw that is just as sharply masculine as Stiles remembers.

“What the hell are you doing here, Stiles?” Derek fucking Hale growls at him. “How did you find me?” He looks as much like a deer caught in the headlights as Stiles suddenly feels.

Stiles licks his lips. He tries to remember the last time he saw Derek, and he can’t. It had to have been some time after the whole Alpha Pack fiasco, but so much has happened to him since then, it’s hard to be sure. He vaguely remembers that Scott has kept up with him somewhat over the years, but he’s got nothing else.

“I didn’t. I mean. I wasn’t. The act of finding implies that I was looking, and I…”

“Wasn’t?” Derek offers, raising an unimpressed eyebrow when Stiles trails off.

“Right. I wasn’t looking for you. I was just trying to get out of the rain, and TA DA!” Stiles makes jazz hands.

Derek rolls his eyes.

“So then, what are you doing here? In DC?”

Stiles has a moment of nostalgia for the unique way in which Derek can compress so much sarcasm into so few words, while still managing to sound like he might actually—grudgingly—give a damn.

“Work!” Stiles says, feeling like he at least has his footing again, as a familiar excitement rushes through him “Well. Maybe. Hopefully. I have an interview over at Quantico tomorrow.”


“That’s the plan!”

“I can see it,” Derek tells him. “At least, from what I can remember about you.”

Neither of them seems to know what to say after that, and the air between them feels heavy and strained. Stiles wonders if they both look as awkward as he suspects they do. As the silence drags on, the only sounds to fill the air are the dull pound of the rain outside, and the much more immediate drip drip drip, as each bead of water slides off some portion of Stiles’ body and into the growing puddle at his feet.

Finally Derek huffs and rolls his eyes, and it’s like a switch is flipped in him. The tension bleeds out of his body, and it’s almost like looking at a completely different person.

“I don’t think the rain’s supposed to let up for a while,” Derek admits, pursing his lips as he glares at the water Stiles has tracked in, “but I could probably find an umbrella to lend you…”

Stiles nods gratefully, but he has to fight against a pang of disappointment. He’s not too enthused about going back out into the rain, much less the nightmare drive through—Stiles looks at his watch. Yup—Rush hour traffic. In sodding wet clothes too. Great.

An umbrella is definitely more than he expected, though. He’d honestly just been hoping for a brief respite from the rain, when he’d ducked into the gallery. Who is he to be greedy now?

His disappointment has nothing to do with Derek. Obviously.

“Or…” Derek’s face suddenly seems to soften, and he actually looks hesitant. It’s all Stiles can do not to stare, not to try and catalogue the differences between this man, and the Derek Hale he’d known back in Beacon Hills. He doesn’t look particularly older, but the lines around his mouth and eyes have smoothed out, and he looks more open and relaxed. “I live upstairs. I could find you some dry clothes? And something hot to drink. If you wanted. Or…” he says, immediately backtracking, which definitely jives more with the Derek that Stiles remembers. “I could just get you that umbrella…”

“Oh my God,” Stiles moans, interrupting him, latching onto the prospect of being dry with what is probably alarming enthusiasm.“ Clothe and feed me? I will love you forever.”

And fucking fuckity shit. He snaps his mouth closed as soon as he realizes what he’s just said.

At least Derek’s snarky response of “I wish I’d known it was that easy,” is light and amused. If he notices Stiles' discomfort, he doesn't show it. He just nods resignedly, and then heads off to find his keys so he can lock up.

They have to go back outside to get to Derek’s apartment. Apparently, while located directly over the gallery, the private entrance is actually next door.

Stiles hardly notices the two seconds he’s back in the rain. He’s still reeling over the idea of Derek working in a gallery. Hell, actually owning the gallery, which he realizes after Derek makes an off hand comment to that effect. Apparently, at least some of the art on the wall had been his, and that sort of blows Stiles mind. He silently regrets not taking a better look, but he resolves to, later. When he resembles something more like a human being, and less like a drowned rat.

They head up a narrow and creaky flight of stairs, and then Derek is herding Stiles into a small, but comfortable apartment. It’s clean, but it feels lived in. There are books scattered around, and dishes in the sink. There are also honest to God, straight-out-of-a-catalogue, throw pillows on the couch, and gauzy curtains hang over the windows.

“Stay there,” Derek tells him, pointing at the small patch of linoleum right in front of the door. “I don’t want you dripping all over my carpet, too.”

Stiles fights a grin, but shrugs, and he just manages to strip out of his multiple layers, down to a bare chest, by the time Derek returns. He actually doesn’t notice him at first, and it takes Derek clearing his throat for Stiles to look up, sodden shirt cradled carefully in his hands to keep from wringing more water onto the floor than necessary.

Derek is standing about five feet away from him, and Stiles has the strange thought that he seems hesitant to come closer. It quickly goes out the window though, when he strides purposefully toward Stiles and thrusts a pile of folded clothes at him.

“Bathroom. Down that way, to the left. Leave your wet clothes in the hall, and I’ll put them in the dryer.” Derek says, his voice clipped and a little rough.

Stiles salutes, takes the clothes, and makes a dash to the bathroom. “Uh… ok, weird question,” he calls from around the frame of the bathroom door, a moment later. Derek is still standing where Stiles left him, facing away from the hallway. His shoulders look slightly hunched. “But uh, you mind if I take a shower? I think I’ll warm up faster.”

Derek doesn’t turn around, just waves a hand dismissively behind him, and Stiles figures that’s answer enough.

When he emerges what is probably an embarrassingly long time later— the hot water had felt amazing, and Derek had frankly awesome water pressure—it’s to find Derek lounging on his couch. He’s obviously changed as well, while Stiles was showering, and his paint-spattered clothes have ben replaced with comfortable looking jeans and a forest green Henley that Stiles just knows will do amazing things for his eyes. His socked feet are thrown up on the coffee table, and his head is tilted against the back of the couch, the long line of his neck a study in light and shadow.

Plucking self consciously at his borrowed sweatshirt, where it clings stubbornly to his damp skin, Stiles swallows, and tamps down on the sudden surge of arousal that leaves him feeling breathless, and about ten years younger.

He actually thinks Derek might be asleep, for a second. His eyes are shut, but just as Stiles is hesitating on what to do, they flutter open, and Derek rolls his head to the side, looking at him without lifting it.

“Feel better?” he asks, voice low and gravely. The sound of it sends a shiver racing down Stiles’ spine.

“Uh. Yeah. Thanks.” Stiles shuffles forward toward the couch, the carpet soft beneath his bare feet. Derek lazily tracks his movement, rolling his head to keep Stiles in his field of vision.

When he reaches the couch, he sits gingerly on the edge, opposite Derek.

“I put your clothes in the dryer,” Derek says after a moment, “They shouldn’t take too much longer.”

“And then I’ll be out of your hair,” Stiles says, and he hopes his voice doesn’t sound as falsely cheerful as he’s afraid it does.

“It’s not a big deal.”

They sit there in silence for a few minutes, although it’s a little more comfortable now. The rain continues to come down outside, and it patters rhythmically against the glass of the windows. The light in the apartment is dim, and Stiles, despite himself, feels himself start to catch on to Derek’s drowsiness. He finally gives in, and allows himself to slouch more comfortably, throwing his feet up on the coffee table as well, his body naturally curving into a comfortable bracket, head tilted back to match Derek.

Derek huffs, and twitches a little, pointedly glaring at Stiles’ feet, but he doesn’t seem inclined to actually threaten. Or take more direct violent action.

“So. How are things back in Beacon Hills?” Derek says instead, mouth tilted in a disgruntled frown.

“Good. I guess.” Stiles shrugs. He knows from long experience, that the qualifier will soften the lie. “Scott’s still the alpha. And he and Allison are married now…”

“Yeah, I got the wedding invitation.”

There’s silence again, and then Stiles basically figures screw it. “I missed you,” he admits.

He’s not prepared for Derek’s tentative smile, although he doesn’t echo Stiles’ words.

Their eyes catch, and the air between them suddenly feels thick. It’s all Stiles can do not to move forward. The couch isn’t that big, and it would barely take anything at all to be close enough to…

A shrill buzzing sound breaks the atmosphere, and it’s only after Stiles reels back that he realizes just how close he and Derek have moved toward each other.

Derek blinks as well, and he turns to look back over his shoulder toward a set of slatted double doors that Stiles guesses hides the washing machine and offending dryer.

“Your clothes,” Derek says gruffly, pushing himself off the couch. He refuses to meet Stiles’ eyes as he does so.

He returns a second later with a bundle of clothes that, even from where Stiles is still sitting, smell like that unique combination of heat and dryer sheets.

“You can keep the sweats,” Derek says gruffly, and when Stiles doesn’t say anything in response, can’t say anything, around the thick lump in his throat, Derek continues, “I’ll go find you that umbrella.”

And just like that, Stiles finds himself back outside of Derek’s apartment, standing in a daze on the landing at the top of the stairs. He blinks stupidly at the closed door, and he thinks the lump in his throat might, actually, choke him.

His legs feel like lead as he clomps dazedly down the stairs, the bundle of his clothes heavy in one arm, and the handle of a basic black umbrella clutched in his other.

He makes it nearly to the bottom, when he stops, his brain suddenly catching up to his body.

He can’t bring himself to take the last step out of Derek’s life. Not again.

Also, there is no way in hell, that he’s going to let Derek Hale dictate his life like Stiles is a sixteen-year-old kid again.

They had been having a moment, and he knows that Derek felt it too.

Rushing back up the stairs, Stiles doesn’t even have to knock before Derek is pulling the door open. He can’t help but wonder if Derek had been on the other side, having the same thoughts. He has the sudden image in his head of Derek leaning against the door, listening to Stiles for as long as could, tortured and hurting. Because…hello….Derek Hale, and he’s not as different, ten years later, as he’d probably like to think he is.

“Stiles…” Derek says warily. He’s backlit, standing in the door of the apartment, and Stiles literally can’t breathe at the sight of him.

He doesn’t give Derek the opportunity to say anything else, just launches himself forward into Derek’s arms and locks their mouths together.

Derek catches him easily, his hands coming around his back to hold onto him. It takes him another few seconds to catch on to the actual kissing, but when he does, his mouth is hot and insistent, his tongue probing.

Stiles’ breath whooshes out of his chest when his back hits the wall next to the door, and Derek eagerly swallows the sound of it.

“I knew it,” Stiles gloats into the space between them, when he pulls back to catch his breath.

Derek hums in response, not bothering to justify himself, and turns his focus from Stiles’ mouth to his jaw. He just breathes hotly on the skin at first, and Stiles has to use all of his self-control to keep from shaking out of Derek’s hold completely. Derek isn’t even touching him, but to Stiles, it might be the single most arousing thing anyone has ever done to him. He just wishes he’d known that the skin of his jaw was so intimately connected to his dick before, like erotic acupressure or something. Stiles holds back a snigger at the thought, before it’s banished completely by Derek actually dragging his lips across the same skin.

When Derek’s hands fall lower to grab at the backs of his thighs, it’s more instinct than a conscious decision that has him jumping up, and letting Derek take his weight. He’s so caught up in all the sensations, he’s barely even aware when Derek kicks the door shut, before walking them back to his bedroom.

It’s only when Derek kneels on the bed, and Stiles feels the softness of a mattress at his back, that he even half way comes back to himself. He reluctantly unwinds his arms and legs, letting his body sprawl back into a mound of pillows. Derek gaze is predatory, from where he's braced over him, boxing him in.

“Oh my god,” Stiles groans, his hips hitching up reflexively. “I want your hands on me. Wanted your hands on me for years.”

Derek shudders at the words, but when he presses his body down more firmly into Stiles’, his weight is anchoring in a way that Stiles doesn't expect. Some of the urgency between them dissipates, and is replaced by something a little more intense and heated.

When they kiss again, it’s slower, deeper. The heat of Derek’s dick, even through their layers of clothing, is hot and insistent, but for the moment, Derek is holding himself steady, as if kissing is all he cares about in the world. His hands, warm and heavy on Stiles's waist, keep him still as well.

Derek’s hands trail up from his hips, tracing the edge of the sweatshirt Stiles is wearing, before they slide underneath to caress the skin of his belly. His hands can span almost the entirety of Stiles’ stomach, even now, despite the fact that it’s been years since he’s grown into his body.

Stiles tenses, and he feels very human and breakable in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

When he strains up though, Derek doesn’t hesitate to allow him to reverse their positions. He’s grateful for it, and the sight of Derek, sprawled loose limbed beneath him, scatters his brief flash of anxiety in the space of time that it takes him to straddle Derek’s waist.

“You okay?” Derek asks, bringing one hand up to cup Stile's jaw, his thumb gently tracing over his bottom lip. His chest heaves beneath Stiles’ hands, but his eyes are wide and dark, and so soft that Stiles is reminded again that this Derek is different, after all.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. Sorry. I just…” He trails off, and shrugs apologetically. He nuzzles his face into Derek's palm, before turning and catching Derek's thumb in his mouth. He sucks on it for a moment, enjoying the taste and texture, before pulling back enough to kiss just the tip of it. Derek's face is impossibly fond as he watches him do it.

They’re both still achingly hard. When Stiles leans back down to taste Derek's lips instead, neither of them is capable of holding back a groan at the sudden friction of it.

“Not how you planned on your afternoon going?” Derek’s asks breathlessly. His mouth quirks a little, and his tone is gentle and teasing.

“Really not,” Stiles admits, still hovering close. “But uh, not complaining either. I just got lost in my head for a second. I’ve been thinking about having sex with you for like, a third of my life. This is a little surreal.”

Derek nods. “We can go slow, then.”

“Not too slow, I hope.”

It feels strangely like bravery, when Stiles catches the edge of his shirt and pulls it over his head. Derek’s hands almost immediately go back to his waist, but this time, his touch is perfect and hot.

“I want to see you too,” Stiles says, voice soft and rough, and he shifts off Derek, so they can both strip out of their clothes. He manages it quickly, and then looks back at Derek, who seems to be trying to accomplish the feat without actually getting up off the bed. He’s already gotten his shirt off, his bare chest is pale in the watery light of the bedroom, and he’s currently working on his jeans. Stiles can’t help but stare, riveted, when Derek arches his hips off the bed to do it.

“Jesus,” Stiles groans, and despite himself, he reaches out to help get the jeans the rest of the way off.

Derek’s skin is soft and perfect, when Stiles kneels at his side. He leans forward, hovering over him instead of straddling him again, and It’s easy from this position to reach down and fist his hand around Derek’s dick. Stiles feels a shiver of smug pride when Derek moans and stutters his hips uncontrollably into the contact.

“Fuck, Stiles.”

“That’s the idea.”

Stiles works his hand in a deliberate rhythm, before Derek bats his hand away and rears up, tackling Stiles back to the bed in retaliation.

He kisses Stiles chastely, and then, holding his gaze, crawls slowly backward. Stiles breath hitches, and gets increasingly shallow the further down Derek gets. And then Derek is kneeling over his hips, every line of his body charged with promise.

“Oh my god.”

Derek smirks, and bites his lip, obviously holding himself back from playing into Stiles’ game of witticism. He’d lose anyway.

It’s just as well, though, because Derek’s mouth is clearly put to better use. Stiles curses, and he bites his fist when Derek envelops him, sucking the entire length of his dick into his mouth.

Derek just holds him there for a second, getting him wet, before he pulls back a little, and looks up at Stiles from beneath his lashes. Despite everything, Stiles gets caught up in the intensity of his gaze for a second. When Derek’s tongue lashes teasingly at the head of his dick, though, at the same time he presses the tip of a teasing finger to the tight skin of his hole, Stiles jolts off the bed in surprised pleasure.

He’s honestly not even sure when his hands end up clenched in Derek’s hair, but it’s a Herculean effort to keep himself from taking control and thrusting himself deep into Derek’s throat.

“Fucking hell, Derek,” Stiles moans.

Derek gently circles his hole in response, just petting at the tight skin for a moment. His other hand urges Stiles to spread his legs further, giving him more room to work, and when Derek finally pushes his finger fully inside, Stiles arches his shoulders off the bed. The burn of it is just on the edge of painful, but he moans at the anticipation of better things to come. Derek’s other hand feels huge where it has moved to cup his ass, gently massaging. He can’t decide if the pressure of it is distracting, or a perfect counterpoint to the sensation of being penetrated.

Either way, everything Derek does is starting to feel raw and shocky. It’s like his veins have been replaced with live wires, and combined with the perfect suction of Derek’s mouth, the sensory overload has Stiles's body clenching with expectation. He can already feel his orgasm start to build low in his spine, and Stiles uses the hand that’s still tangled in Derek’s hair to weakly push him away. Derek pulls off of him with a wet pop. He licks his lips, and looks pleased when Stiles says, voice breathy, “I’m gonna come if you keep that up. I want to come with you.”

When Derek crawls back up his body to kiss him, Stiles shivers at the taste of himself, earthy and salty, on his tongue.

Everything is wet and messy after that; they’re both way beyond the point of finesse, as they rut against each other, desperate and a little too rough. They aren’t even actually kissing anymore, just mouthing at whatever skin they can reach. Their fingers are tangled together, pressed into the pillows up next to Stiles’ head, and the air between them feels charged with lightning and potential.

When he comes, it’s probably the single most intense orgasm Stiles has ever had. He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a moment.

When his awareness returns, it’s to Derek shuddering over him, and Stiles watches in a kind of relaxed post orgasmic haze as Derek’s back arches and his hips stutter without rhythm. His dick slips, wet and hot along the groove of Stiles thigh, each forward thrust nudging at the tip at Stiles' own softening cock, causing little electric shocks that are almost too intense, in his oversensitive state. When Derek finally comes with a low groan, his eyes flash electric blue, before he collapses half on top of Stiles, their come a slick mess between them.

They both just lay there, breathing, for a long time.

Their hands are still tangled together, and at some point Derek’s thumb starts steadily caressing the back of his hand, until the skin there starts to get over sensitive, and Stiles carefully untangles their fingers.

Derek looks up at him then, and his eyes are shockingly pale from this close, the contrast with his heavy brows and the low light of the room, causing Stiles’ heart to stutter a little. He brings his now-freed hand up to Derek’s hair, smiling a little, self-satisfied, as he ruffles it into further disarray.

“Sex hair,” he says on a teasing laugh, and his chest clenches when Derek smiles, wide and genuine, and actually chuckles in return. God.

Stiles can't actually remember Derek ever showing anything other than fear or anger, before, and experiencing his happiness now, feels strangely more real to Stiles than the sex. It's like a jolt back into reality, and he feels his afterglow dissipate like air being let out of a balloon. He pulls away.

Derek lets him get as far as sitting on the edge of the bed, before he slides a hand over Stiles’ shoulder, keeping him from escaping any further.


“Sorry. I…Derek…” Stiles half turns around, and his heart clenches when he realizes that Derek's smiles had faded into neutral blankness.

“Is this the part where you tell me this was a mistake?” Derek asks. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, but his body is tilted toward Stiles as if he literally can’t help himself.

Stiles snorts, and he wants to make the sound bitter, but it comes out fond, despite himself. His shoulders slump. “Is it weird that when I imagined this, I figured you’d be the one saying that to me?”

Derek frowns, his heavy brows drawing downward. His head cocks to the side, and he leans back, as he considers Stiles. In that position, a single beam of light falls perfectly across his chest, and it highlights a still wet smear of come that has inexplicably found its way high up on his left pec, just above his nipple.

Stiles licks his lips, and he has to slant his eyes away before he becomes fixated.

“Look, Derek, I am basically in zero position to offer you anything, right now,” Stiles finally admits. “If my interview goes well, the training is sixteen weeks, but who the hell knows how much down time I’ll have. And then they'll ship me off to some shit assignment, who knows where…Probably some podunk town in the Midwest. If I’m lucky. And if it doesn’t work out…what!?”

At some point, a slow smile has begun to spread across Derek’s face, gradually replacing the blankness that had been there.

“Why are you smiling, you asshole?”

“Stiles. We haven’t seen each other in ten years, but you somehow still managed to find yourself in in the one square foot of this damn town that I happen to own. Will it blow your mind if I say that I have faith? Faith that if this,” Derek gestures at the space between them, “is meant to be, it’ll work out?”

“Thank you, Scott.” Stiles rolls his eyes, but he can feel some of the tension easing back out of him.

“Is it a bad thing?” Derek asks softly. When he hesitantly pulls him back against his chest, Stiles just goes with it, letting Derek manhandle him.

Stiles snorts. “God, I feel like I’ve just stepped into some sort of alternate reality,” he muses resignedly, his hand coming up to cover Derek’s that’s splayed across his chest. “I look at you, and there’s a part of me that remembers being attracted to you back in Beacon Hills, ok? And no offense dude, but you were so broken back then.”

Derek hums in acknowledgement, and noses at Stiles’ throat. Stiles obligingly tilts his head back to give him more room.

“And then there’s this part of me that looks at you now, and you’re just…fuck” Stiles moans when Derek nips at his shoulder

“I think you’re over complicating things,” Derek whispers into the shell of Stiles’ ear. “I know that I want you. Right now. Like this. We’re not talking about forever, Stiles, and I don’t think forever is the reason you came back and kissed me either…”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but fair point. And god, he can’t help but marvel at how he managed to get from alone and stuck in the rain, to this. “So what do you suggest, then?”

“I think we have sex again,” Derek says, shrugging. “And then maybe we go to dinner…Or maybe we don't, whatever we feel like. And then who knows…I think I’d like to get to know you again, though.” Derek says the last softly, the words like a confession against Stiles’ skin.

“Well, I think,” Stiles says thoughtfully, turning around to kneel on the bed, facing Derek, “that you are a lot smarter than I remember.”

Derek's voice is perfectly bitchy when he says, “Thanks for that. Your validation is just what I’ve always needed.”

Stiles laughs, and then he wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, kissing him slow and lingering. He figures he’ll give it to Derek, this time. Whatever happens will happen.

The world outside of the apartment is wet and indistinct, but here, now, naked and sex drunk, life is pretty damn awesome.