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A Casual Affair

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To be completely honest, Stiles never imagined that he’d be there. Right at that moment.

Because Derek was a hell of a lot hotter than he was, and a hell of a lot drunker than he was. And yet. There they were.

Wait, could werewolves even get drunk?

He looked up into Derek’s eyes, which were waaaay closer than he’d ever thought they’d be, without, you know, a threat of Stile’s (inevitable) demise. 

(Although at the moment, he feared that the pounding in his chest, and the tightness of his pants would be the cause of his untimely death.)

The glaze of Derek’s green, no brown, no green?! HAZEL eyes showed that hell yeah, he seemed pretty freaking smashed.

"Hey, dude, you uh-," The feeling of stubble rubbing against his neck, and whoa, there was another kink he didn’t know he had. That, along with being pushed into walls and leather jackets.

Derek fucking Hale everybody.

Stiles shook himself out of his arousal-induced haze and pushed against Derek’s chest. But in comparison to the werewolf’s hard-as-steel chest (pecs, oh sweet mercy on his erection), it was practically a feather.

But a flippin’ manly feather. Very manly.

He pressed on. “You don’t wanna do this, man.”

Derek leaned back abruptly, and Stiles couldn’t help a wince. Oh yeah, there would be major stubble burn on his neck in a little while. A part of him was worried about how little he was worried about that.

"But, Stiles." He leaned close, and Stiles could smell the alcohol, along with something deep and musky and powerful that he could feel himself getting drunk on. Figuratively drunk.

Derek’s eyes were more clear than they had been the whole night, flashing blue at random intervals, and Stiles could see the intent and wanting (Whoa, an irrelevant part of him whispered. This hotness wants your D…). 

Stiles smashed that part of him down pretty quickly. If only he could do that with the awkward raging boner in his jeans.

Goddamn, the one time he needed to not think about his dick, the only thing he could think about was, you guessed it, his dick.

But there was also this weird, prickly and warm feeling that was creeping its way into his chest cavity, and Stiles kinda wanted to squash that down too. He’d heard stories about things like that, and he was not excited to see that Derek Hale was the reason behind it.

Stiles was smart, and he knew that: Derek + warm prickly annoying feeling = hurt Stiles in the long run.

"I do." Stiles felt the words as they blew across his lip, and in the name of all that was good and holy did that NOT help with the problem in his pants (again with the freaking… you know what, who even cares anymore, that hotness did want his D) And if his eyes rolled back into his head a little bit, that was his own damn business.

But the small smirk that quirked the edges of Derek’s lips showed that he didn’t feel the same way at all. Apparently it was his fire-trucking business too.

"Wanna get out of here?" 

The practical part of his mind was screaming at him. Don’t do it dude, abort, abort he’s just going to take you to a creepy abandoned warehouse and kill you like he’s been saying for the past who knows how long! Okay maybe not super practical, but more practical than what ever was controlling the pocket rocket in his pants that was about to 3 2 1 liftoff, if you know what he meant.

Which you probably do, you seem like you’re intelligent people.

But the more dominant part of his brain, the part that just wanted, took and desired, murmured, yes. And the word flowed (more like stumbled and tripped down the stairs) out of his own mouth.

Before he knew it, Derek’s fingers were hooked through the loops in his jeans, and he was being dragged out of the nightclub, or pub, or bar, or wherever the hell they had gone, and into Derek’s Camaro.

As Stiles felt Derek’s heated stare on him for the entire drive, he bit his tongue to prevent himself from the “keep your eyes on the road!” that would surely slip out if he clenched his jaw. 

He hoped to Whoever Was Listening that this wasn’t the biggest mistake he’d ever made.

He also hoped that maybe Derek would make do on his “thrust you up against the wall, rip your throat out” threat. 

Hmm. Another kink to add to his ever-growing list. 

Shit. This was really happening wasn’t it?

He allowed himself a glance towards the manflesh (he really needed to rewatch the Lord of the Rings soon) that was plaguing his mind, and wasn’t really surprised to see Derek was glancing back at him. 

Yeah, it was.

Stiles let out a sigh, and tried to relax himself into the plush pillows of the car.

He could only hope that he wouldn’t regret this in the morning.

But knowing his luck, he thought as he glanced towards Derek again, it wouldn’t be him that would regret it.

He closed his eyes, and sighed.

Just his motherfucking luck.

Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz.

"Motherfucking, goddamn."

Stiles rubbed at his eyes, but refused to open them. It was a freaking Sunday, and he was going to stay in bed until noon.

Or until his dad pulled the covers off from over him, leaving him shivering with awkwardly erect nipples.

Dammit,  he needed to get up and make his dad breakfast. He’d been really wiped for the past few days, but he hadn’t missed the doughnut and cookie boxes that lay hastily thrown away in the trash can.

He groped for the alarm clock that usually sat to the left, on his night stand, but instead he felt something squishy. Warm, fleshy and squishy.

HOLY-,” he screeched as he fell out of bed, and of course, the sheets came down with him. He rolled around for a few moments, before sighing and lying flat on his back, the blankets tangled around his leg.

He felt like a flippin’ pretzel. A flippin’ pretzel that had an unknown inhabitant in its bed.


His eyes widened and he stiffened up, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to see.

Probably some new Alpha pack member that wanted to eat his face. All in another day in the pathetic existence of Stiles Stilinski.

He slowly sat up, thanking the divine for the crunches he was forced to do for lacrosse. He also prayed to the aforementioned divine, with a simple, “please let me live so I can eat one more piece of bacon.” He’d be completely satisfied with dying after breakfast, thank you very much.

He inched up until he saw who was in his bed.

No. Wait. The wasn't his blanket.

That was not his bed. If it wasn’t his bed, who’s fucking bed was it?!

He looked around and realized that this wasn’t his room. He was in a strange room with a strange man and he was so going to die wasn’t he?

He took a series of deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. He would survive this. Death by Sexual Escapade wasn’t something that was on his To Do List.

He took inventory of everything in the room, trying to catalogue what could be used to kill him, and what he could use to defend himself. The bed took up about half of the room, and there was a black dresser against the wall directly behind him. Another dresser was on the opposite wall, but had a mirror. He saw that the mystery man was facing towards the mirror, and craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse.

Hmm, black spiky hair, stubble, muscl- Oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

The word replayed in his head, like a mantra. A mantra of death, because he was definitely going to die today.

He was in Derek Hale's house. He watched as his reflection's eyes widened, and the blood rushed out of its face.

That blood would be splattered on the walls once Derek woke up.

"Shit, shit, shit." Stiles cursed under his breath, and carded his fingers through his hair. He thought for a moment, and quietly groaned when the events of the previous night had flooded through his mind.

The bar, the drinks, the fucking arousal.

If he was being completely honest, Stiles had been thinking - no, dreaming - about this day for a while. The whole Miguel fiasco had left him with an awkward sexuality crisis boner. And he wasn’t going to lie, even if he wasn’t as curly as a curly fry, Derek was really, really attractive.

Approximately 100 times more attractive then Stiles. If Derek was at ground level, Stiles was 20 leagues under the sea in relative attractiveness.

But that didn’t stop him from ogling whenever he got the chance.

Derek had a strange habit of taking his shirt off. All the damn time. That didn’t help with his erection crisis, but hey, he would take what he could get.

That added triskeles to his list of Thing-That-Made-Him-Horny-At-The-Worst-Possible-Times. Fuck his fucking life, for short.

Stiles had fallen out of his chair more than once trying to get a good glimpse at it. More than 15 times, if he was being more accurate.

And along with Derek’s crazy wolfy senses, he could always smell that arousal just radiating off of Stiles. Well, Stiles assumed it was like radiating. He didn’t actually know, but whenever mini him was even slightly excited, Derek would just turn to him, give him this little eyebrow twitchy thing, and then bam. No more boner. Or an even harder boner, which resulted in Stiles making an excuse to leave.

Derek’s built in erection detection was pretty handy, Stiles supposed. What irked Stiles was the fact that Derek knew he caused the erection.

Gah, life was unfair sometimes.

Don’t get him wrong, he was good as a human. At least, he thought he was good. But sometimes, he wished he had a little superhero action going on himself.

He was probably the least heroic person he knew.

He was the nerdy trippy flaily guy, the one that everybody came to when they needed help with their homework or research. He was good at that. But being pushed to the side whenever anything exciting (dangerous, you mean, muttered that all-knowing, really-annoying voice in the back of his head) happened got old. Fast.

He tugged at his hair again, and let out a long exhale.

"Shut up, I can feel your angst from here."

Stiles’ head shot up so fast that he gave himself whiplash. He mentally, and sarcastically, pat himself on the back. Nice one, Stiles. You’re probably charming him with your… charm.

"H-hey, Derek." He stayed sitting on the floor, not wanting to see the look on the older man’s face.

Grunt. Stiles’ eyes narrowed on their own. Of course. The big grumpy sourwolf won’t even be ‘awake’ until after Stiles was long gone.


Stiles quickly jumped to his feet, and whoa, where did all of his clothes go? He swooped down and grabbed a pillow that had fallen on the ground after his spectacular dive off of the bed. Quickly, he covered his junk. He didn’t want to be any more embarrassed than he already was. Based on the hazy flashes from the previous night, Derek was packing some major heat down there in Los Pantalones de Sexy Wolf. If Stiles was low tide, Derek was the freaking Big Kahuna.

But considering the hickeys that ran down his chest, along his thighs, and on the parts of his shoulders that he could see, Derek had already seen Stiles’ package.

Stiles just really needed to get out of there.

He saw his black boxers hanging haphazardly off of the door handle, and walked over to it, making sure that the pillow was still covering everything that Derek could see. He snatched the underwear, and quickly put them on. With one hand. Which was pretty damn difficult, so he deserved some sort of praise.

And he wasn’t going to get that here.

"Erm, right! So this has been fun, but I have to… go! Yes, I have to go, and take out the trash. You, uh, know how parents get when you don’t do your chores." Stiles winced. He was such a fucking dunce sometimes. "Wow, I’m sorry. Uh, let’s not take this time to be reminded of the, er, sadness of… Yeah, you know. I’m just gonna-," he jerked his thumb back towards the door. He turned and was about to get the hell out of Dodge when


He stood, his hand on the doorknob. He was inches away from freedom, he could almost feel the relief of it. Freedom from the awkardness that was The Morning After with Derek Hale.

Hmm, maybe somebody should make a reality TV show about that. It would be sure to get a ton of views, considering Derek Hale without a shirt. Derek Hale right after he woke up, with his raspy voice and mussed hair and-

His shoulders slumped, and he turned his head, so that his cheek faced Derek and he could see the older man through the corner of his eye. Derek was sitting up now, head cocked in an almost adorable way. Well, it would be adorable if Stiles didn’t know the true evil behind those hazel eyes and bunny teeth.

Oh, there was a bite mark on his right shoulder. See? The bunny teeth were absolutely lethal. Derek could probably rip Stiles’ throat out with his teeth.

Derek was still staring at him, something oddly similar to confusion on his face.

"Where are you going?" And holy mother of whatever created this fine specimen of man, was that a bad time to be getting a hard on.

But in his defense. Derek’s just-woke-up voice was hella fucking sexy. Nobody should have the right to sound that arousing right after they woke up. Stiles sounds like he was gargling nails if he tries to talk before drinking some water. But not Derek. His was all raspy and deep and ugh, Stiles really needed to pay attention. He hadn’t taken any Adderall in the past two days, so his focus was a little shot.

"Uh," Stiles stuttered, "Home? After I find my pants and shirt and socks and shoes and things."

"You’re not… you’re not staying?" Derek’s voice sounded vulnerable almost, and Stiles, without thinking about it, turned to him.

"Well, I’m assuming that you don’t want me to? I mean, last night was fun, but you’re, yanno, you, and I’m… well, I’m me. And you were pretty piss drunk last night, so I’m guessing that there was some wolfsbane in your beer. Or beers I should say. And you uh,” Stiles glanced around the room, not looking at Derek as he tried to find the right words, “probably weren’t to aware of what you were doing, so I just sorta thought that-“

"That what? I didn’t like you?" Derek’s voice was hard, and maybe a tad defensive? Stiles couldn’t even tell, he just really wanted out of there.

Hmm. Well, there was one way to kill an erection. Damn, he was definitely going to feel the after effects of those repeated blue balls later.

"Erm. Yeah."


"What?" Stiles’ voice was not trembling at all.

"You’re an idiot."

Stiles flailed his arms in indignation, and opened his mouth to protest, but Derek held up a hand. ‘Shut your damn pie hole before I shut it myself.” Stiles liked to think that he was fluent in Derek-ese, which consisted mainly of grunts, one word answers, and hand gestures.

It was quite an achievement to be honest. It showed that Derek tolerated him enough to let Stiles take the necessary time to understand. And Derek was hard enough to understand when he did use his words.

So yeah, Stiles was pretty proud of himself.

He quickly realized that Derek had been staring at him, apparently ready to talk. Or grunt, maybe. Hopefully they wouldn’t be the sexy, moan-y grunts that Stiles had a faint recollection of, because if he was thinking about this in the right way, that would be like pulling the trigger to a gun. A gun in his pants.

And Derek would definitely notice if that happened. Even without the freaky deaky werewolf mojo.

Those eyes were still on him, and whoa, blueness. Blue eyes meant that he was feeling some particularly strong emotion.

Like wanting-to-murder-Stiles.

"Okay, OKAY, jeez don’t kill me. I’m listening, you big grumpy pants." Stiles’ gaze unconsciously traveled down Derek’s torso, and- "You big grumpy boxers."

More stares.

Stiles huffed, and put his hands on his hips. In a masculine, threatening way.

"Dude, I haven’t got all day alright. I have homework that I need to finish. So, if you’re done trying to burn a freaking hole into my face, I’d like to get on that." Smooth, Stiles. ”Not, get on that like get on that, but- you know, yeah.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, and goddamn, how did he do that? Whenever Stiles practiced in the mirror, more times than he’d tell you if you asked, it just looked like he was having a facial seizure or being electrocuted.

Stiles settled for scowling at him. “What?” He tried to make his voice unemotional. But before he could even open his mouth, a Derek spoke.

"You probably finished your homework the day it was assigned. I don’t know who you’re trying to kid, Stiles."

Stiles eyes widened. “Wha- how did you know that? Are you like stalking me?” He glanced at his hands, which were clasped into a knot, before jerking his head back up. “Did you pee in my bushes?!”

Derek shot him an affronted look, and stared incredulously at him.

"Are you fucking serious?"

Oh yes, today was Stiles’ death day. He could almost see the Fates laughing at him.

Stiles shoulders slumped, and he rubbed the back of his neck, wondering why the fuck that had to slip out of his mouth. “Erm, there was this thing with Scott, and he was telling me about how-,”

And Derek was glaring at him again. Stiles’ mouth snapped shut so quickly that his teeth audibly clicked together.

"I didn’t pee in your bushes." Now it was Derek’s turn to look sheepish. "I guess, I just, uh, know you. That well."

The awkwardness of Derek’s tone made Stiles want to physically cringe. Knowing Derek, feelings and expressing emotions of any kind - other than rage and self-hatred - were difficult for him. If that were a class, Derek would be sitting in the corner with the dunce cap every day for their entire school experience.

But he wasn’t wrong. They were forced to spend an unnatural amount time together, and as a result, they had gotten closer (???) maybe. They had even spent time together without the rest of the pack. Stiles would like to think it meant something, but probably only friendship-y type things.

God, how Stiles wished it was more than just friendship-y things.

"Oh." Stiles fiddled with his fingers, pulling on them, and wincing when they cracked unexpectedly. He never stopped moving, dropping his arms to his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists, running his fingers through his hair or on the back of his neck.

Before Derek could speak again, a random, and only slightly unrelated thought flew into Stiles’ mind.

"Uh, hey, so. I have a question. Erm, it’ll be really quick. You can murder me or whatever you’re going to do afterwards."

"I wasn’t going to-," Derek sighed. "Fine." The word came out gruff and grunt-y, and Stiles gave himself 10 Points to Ravenclaw, because heck yeah, he knew Derek was going to say that.

"So, uh. You exercise a lot. Like you do weird curl up things on your doors and push-ups in the ashy remains of your old house. Which is totally fine, by the way, I’m not judging. But er, when I woke up this morning, I sorta, accidentally, completely accidentally, punched something. Something squishy, but also you. But you’re not squishy. I mean, I guess you could say your heart is a little squishy, because come on, even Scott has noticed the way you act around Isaac when-”

"Goddammit, Stiles, do you ever stop talking."

It wasn’t a question, so the boy in question just shrugged.

Derek mumbled something unintelligible, while picking at a loose thread on his comforter, the only one that remained on the bed. He actually looked sort of… human, almost. Not as strong and guarded as he normally did.

Stiles ignored the tightening in his chest from realizing that he did that to Derek.

"You’re gonna have to speak up, wolf man, I don’t have super hearing like you do."

Derek sighed, and rolled his eyes. “It was my butt.

Stiles’ knees buckled, and he leaned against the door to prevent himself from falling. “B-but, I thought you were just muscle mass… Like solid as concrete steel! Now you tell me that you have a squishy butt.” Ugh, what the fuck was he even saying anymore.

Derek looked away from Stiles, staring down at the comforter, and he began picking at the thread again. Stiles could see his lips moving, but couldn’t hear anything.

Great, Stiles thought. More freaking mumbling. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

Derek’s eyes flashed up to his, and shit, Stiles was totally saying all of that out loud wasn’t he?

Derek jerked his head down in a sharp nod.

Honesty, the idea of shoving his head down the garbage disposal was sounding more and more appealing by the second.

"Well." Stiles looked down, before realizing, hell yeah, he was totally right.

And he told Derek so.

"Dude, I don’t even care anymore. You’re like Edward Scissorhands, all freaking sad and adorable and motherfucking hands with sharp pointy things at the end. I don’t even know, man, half the time I want to stab you in the face and then the other half I just want to hug you, for fucks sake.”

Stiles glanced back up towards Derek, and the other man had a blank expression. Damn. Might as well quit while he was ahead.

But when he continued to hear his voice, unhindered by his thoughts, he knew that everything was coming out. Now.

"And you know what else? I don’t get you! You’re always so grunt-y and shove-y and you can be really mean, and sometimes you’re really a Grade-A asshole. But lately, you’ve been nicer! Like, you're nicer with the pack, and Scott, and you don’t threaten to shove me into stuff, and I’m just-,” Stiles yanks at his hair, because he’s never had trouble with words before, everybody knows that. He’s always the one that needs the hand slapped over his mouth to shut him up. But now, one of the few times that he just needs the words to work, to fit together like they usually do, they don’t.

"You make my words stop working, Derek." He looked up, and locked eyes with the wolf. Something unfamiliar was churning in those hazel eyes, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it was good or bad.

He wasn’t sure which he wanted.

"How do you do that to me, man? I’m the chatterbox, the one that never shuts up and annoys everybody. I’m like a freaking tsunami of sarcasm, flailing limbs, and random facts that nobody gives a damn about. Hell," he gestures to the entire room, and the person who owns it, "How am I even here? I’m bothersome and spastic, and so not good enough that’s it’s not even-.”

"Shut the hell up."

Stiles stared at his feet, and his curled up toes. He clasped his hands behind is back, and waited. He waited for Derek to say, “It’s about time you realized. Leave now, AND NEVER COME BACK!”

Goddamn, he really needed to see those Lord of the Rings movies again.

"Fuck, Stiles. You have no idea how important you are, do you?"

Wait. Hold the phone for one damn minute. Derek wasn’t following his script. Stiles had already planned out the entire conversation: Derek would say something along the lines of, “Oh, it was fun, let’s not do that again,” Stiles would leave, and everything would go back to normal. Except Stiles would be boner-broken - if we’re having Honesty Hour anyway, Stiles isn’t quite man enough yet to say heart-broken - and everybody would notice.

Another day in The Life and Times of Stiles Stilinski. How fucking spectacular.

"We wouldn’t-," it was Derek’s turn to yank at his own hair. And wow, the fact that it make him look even more bedraggled and sexy was just. Not fair. Stiles was going to personally sue the Gods of Sexiness Distribution because they definitely distributed too much sexy into this fine specimen.

"We wouldn’t be a pack without you."

What. “Uh, sorry to burst your bubble of delusion, but yeah, you would. I mean, you bit all of them, do they’re all bonded to you, right? And I mean, Scott’s the alpha now, after that whole incident with Cora, and man, is she okay? All that black gunky stuff that she kept vomited was 50 Shades of Nasty. But anyways,” he cut himself off, shaking his head. He was going off on another tangent. “Peter bit Scott, and since Peter’s your uncle, you’re going to all be bonded. So basically, you’re all a big happy wolfy family.” Stiles clapped his hands together, as though he were finalizing his statement.

It was like the extremely well-needed period of his long run on sentence.

"We’re," Derek corrected, but Stiles wasn’t really sure what was being corrected.

"No comprendo, mi amigo." He was pretty sure he conjugated that correctly. But frankly, now was not the time to be thinking about such trivial things.

We’re all a big happy family.” Derek looked as though it physically pained him to say it, and Stiles could see why. They weren’t a big happy family. Half the time, they were either, a) running for their lives or b) trying to kill each other.

"B-but," Stiles stuttered. There he goes again, getting all tongue tied. Maybe it was a sign from above. He should just never speak again. Stiles swore that if he got out of this alive, he would duct tape his mouth shut forever.

"I’m not pack."

Stiles had never seen so much emotion, so much rage, filling the older man’s face before. And the fact that it was aimed towards him made it all the more terrifying.

I promise, he thought to himself. Just don’t let me die yet. There’s so much I haven’t done yet! Like, like chocolate covered bacon! Oh, shit, Dad’s probably eating bacon right now as I sit here, waiting to die.

"You are, dammit. Who does all of the research? Who’s saved our asses more times than anyone can count? Who helps Erica with her classes? Who stays with Boyd after hours while he Zamboni’s the ice? Who makes Isaac hot chocolate after he wakes up from a nightmare?"

"Well, yeah bu-."

"No buts Stiles. It’s you. It’s always been you. How can you not-?” Derek, tugged angrily at his own hair, and before Stiles would really process what he was doing, he was across the room, gently untangling Derek’s fingers from the silky black strands.

Stiles carded his fingers through Derek’s hair, waiting for him to start speaking again.

When the werewolf began speaking again, his voice was soft and unsure. Stiles was afraid that the pounding in his chest would overpower the quiet words.

"You’ve always been good with words. I mean," Derek glanced up, faint amusement glittering in his eyes, "Sometimes, you’re a bit too good with them, but you can always say what you need to, even if you use a couple thousand extra words to do that.” Derek let out a little puff of air through his nose.

"I’ve always been jealous of you for that."

The amusement was gone now. Stiles wanted to interrupt Derek, to tell him that there was literally nothing to be jealous of. Most of the time, he wished he had an off switch or something because he never really knew when to stop.

Derek sighed. “I’ve never been great with words, everybody knows that. And every single time I need them to work with me…” He trails off, and looks up at Stiles, as if to say "See, this is what I mean."

And yeah, Stiles knows what he means. Because that’s exactly how he feels around Derek.

"But I need to tell you these things, Stiles. I can’t let you go around thinking that you don’t," Derek’s eyes dart around, occasionally coming back to Stiles’ eyes, as he tries to find the right words. "That you don’t mean something to us. To me.

Breathe, Stiles, his subconscious was screaming at him. He inhaled, because, like the fucking charmer he was, Derek had literally taken his breath away. 

Which was ridiculous, because asphyxiation shouldn’t have been a side effect of… whatever the hell was going on here.

"Jesus, Stiles. The pack calls you ‘Mom’ when you’re not around." A faint blush coloured Derek’s cheeks. "They call me ‘Dad’, too, when they think I can’t hear them."

Stiles barks out a short laugh. “So, we’re Pack Mom and Pack Dad, huh?” He looked down at the older man, amusement quirking up the edges of his lips. “Wait, does this mean that we’re Pack Married?”

Derek shrugs, staring down into his lap. Or at Stiles’ crotch. Either way, he wasn’t looking into Stiles’ eyes, which wasn’t good. Windows into the soul and all that. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Stiles mulls the thought over for a few seconds before grinning. “Eh. I suppose it could be worse.”

Derek, finally, meets Stiles’ eyes, and oh. There was a little tinge of something in there. Something vulnerable and hurt, and fuck, why hadn’t Stiles picked up on that? If he was the only one who could understand Derek, he really needed to read over all of his notes, because this was a big fucking thing to miss.

Derek had always had the clearest eyes, super easy to read, no matter how hard he tried to hide his emotions. And there it was, lurking, and goddamn, how hadn’t Stiles noticed.

Stiles thwacked Derek on the head. “You absofucking dingus!” 

Derek stared back at him, pouting slightly, as one of his hands unconsciously began moving up to his head, probably to rub at his slightly stinging scalp. Stiles had hit him a little harder than he’s intended, but it served that fuckturd right. He grabbed Derek’s hand, and with his free one, gently smoothed the older man’s bedhead.

"I’m not Kate, you stupid asshate. I’m not going to leave you! Or hurt you, if I can have any say in the matter. Get that into your stubborn brain.” He leaned in close, neck sliding into the crook of the older man's neck and his mouth right next to his ear. “Got it, sourwolf?” He gripped tightly at Derek's shoulders, practically hugging him, willing him to understand. All the man could do was tightly wind his arms around Stiles and bury his face into his neck.

"Yeah, you fucker. I’m not leaving, alright?" Stiles began whispering quiet words, practically sweet nothings, to try and sooth the werewolf, who was gently trembling in his arms.

After a few moments, Derek lifted his face out from the crook of Stiles’ neck and said, “Okay.”



"Goddamn, Derek, you know what that…"

"Okay." Stiles glared at Derek, only to find crinkles at the corner of his eyes, and a soft, yet amused, grin painted on his lips.

"You shit. You read it, didn’t you?"

Derek leaned back, not loosening his grip on Stiles, and pulled The Fault in Our Stars out from under his pillow. “It was good.”

After a heated one-sided discussion about the amazing that is – goddammit, he may have died, but he still lived on in their hearts - Augustus Waters, which may have ended in a lot more tears than Stiles would like to admit and an awkward pat on the back from Derek, Stiles had thrust the book at the werewolf. “You read it then! You try not to cry after…” 

Yeah, Stiles they didn’t like to talk about that day.

"Uh, did you cry?"

Derek sighed, before a quiet “yes” left his lips.

Stiles crowed in excitement, knocking Derek, and subsequently himself, backwards onto the bed. He laughed as he lay on top of Derek, hands on either sides of the older man’s head. A smile played at the edge of Derek’s lips, and Stiles couldn’t help but use his thumbs to pull them up all the way.

Derek jerked his head away, and Stiles just couldn’t stop laughing

After his sides were hurting, and a full-blown grin was plastered to the other man’s face, Stiles looked down and saw that Derek was murmuring something to him. He quickly leaned down to try and hear what he was saying.

Fuck me now, he thought, and he wasn’t quite sure if he meant that figuratively or literally.

Derek was reciting lines from the book.

"I’m in love with you," oh, god it was this part, Stiles was going to shoot himself in the face, "and I’m not in the business of denying myself the simple pleasure of saying true things. I’m in love with you, and I know that love is just a shout into the void, and that oblivion is inevitable, and that we’re all doomed and that there will come a day when all our labor has been returned to dust, and I know the sun will swallow the only earth we’ll ever have." Derek paused here, staring into Stiles’ eyes before whispering the last words. "And I am in love with you." 

Stiles’ eyes widened. Derek had memorized all of that. And had said that to him. Him, Stiles Stilinski. And damn it all to hell if that wasn’t the sweetest, most innocent and simultaneously most arousing thing he’d ever heard in his entire damn life. 

Stiles couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and brushing his lips against Derek’s.

"Derek Hale." He leaned back up, and looked into Derek’s eyes. "It would be a privilege-." Before he could finish, Derek’s finger was on his lips.

"I'm not going to break your heart, you shit."

Stiles snorts, thwacking Derek's hand away from his face. “I was going to say, ‘it would be a privilege to have a nice make-out session with your abs, as I briefly recall something like that happening last night’, but hey, whatever floats your boat, honey.

"Well, darling, I’m sure that could be arranged.” 

And that was the last thing he heard before Derek’s lips were on his.

Oh yes, stubble was definitely going to be a thing.