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Alcohol Fuelled Delusions (can sometimes come true!)

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“Stiles!” Derek yelled, shocking Stiles so bad that he tripped and fell right out of the cab. Of course, the alcohol he'd consumed that evening might have had a contributing effect on his co-ordination. He was totally smooth when sober, really. Whatever.

“Dude,” said the guy who'd shared the cab with him, Sean or something. “Are you all right?”

“M'fine,” Stiles replied, or tried to, hampered as he was by a mouthful of grass.

“I'll help you up,” Don said, clambering across the seat of the cab and out the door. He didn't get very far before finding himself shoved back inside, forcefully.

Stiles rolled over to see Derek standing over him, glaring at Juan with an intensity that Stiles hadn't seen for a long time. Not since he'd still been in high school and there was a new danger to contend with every week. He cocked his head to the side as the glare went on, freezing what's his name half in and half out of the cab.

Stiles thought, 'Wow, it's nice when he's not glaring at me for a change,' but when said glare shifted in his direction, he realised that he must have spoken out loud. Oops.

“I said that out loud, didn't I?” Stiles asked, only slightly slurring the words, but Derek ignored him.

“Get up,” he said instead, turning his glare back at the man in the car.

“You never said you had a boyfriend,” Han said as Stiles dragged himself upright, using the car door as leverage.

“He's not my boyfriend,” Stiles replied, a little too bitterly perhaps, but he couldn't help it. He turned to face Derek, the alcohol and frustration giving him a rush of brash courage. “Do you mind?' he asked, turning the tables and glaring at Derek for a change. “I'm busy.”

Derek did not look impressed with his glare.

“You're done,” he said, reaching out and dragging Stiles by the arm, pulling him close enough so that he could smell Derek's cologne, or lack thereof. It was all Derek. He smelled good.

Stiles was sufficiently distracted by the smoky, warm scent, and leaned closer to breath in more of it. “You smell good,” he murmured, moving closer for yet another whiff.

“Hey, I thought we were going inside,” John said, getting out of the cab more successfully this time, looking pissed off.

“You're not,” Derek replied tersely, digging some bills out of his pocket, one-handed as he still held on to Stiles with his other arm, and slipped a twenty to the unamused cabbie. “Now go,” he commanded. The cabbie, having shut off the car when Stiles fell out, turned the key and the engine roared to life.

“But...” Lon began, but by that point, Stiles was long out of the mood, and just wanted to collapse into his bed and sleep for a year.

“Listen, Ron,” he said.

“It's Vaughn,” the man in question snapped, sounding even angrier.

“Right, Vaughn, whatever,” Stiles replied, impatient. He wondered how he'd heard the guy's name at all before letting himself be pushed into that stall in the men's bathroom, or john, he thought with a snicker, at The Jungle and getting sucked off.

“You should probably go,” he continued, shaking his head to center himself in the moment.

“Fine,” Vaughn snapped, getting back in the car and slamming the door. “What a waste of time,” he muttered as the cabbie backed out of the drive. Derek and Stiles didn't move until the cab had disappeared from sight, Stiles because he was feeling drunk and heavy, and Derek...well, he couldn’t guess why Derek hadn't ripped him a new one yet. He'd seemed angry enough for it.

Stiles breathed deeply one more time, already missing the heat of Derek's body, and then pushed away, wrenching himself from Derek's hold and turning toward the house.

“You can go home now,” he slurred, stumbling in the direction of the front porch, without looking at Derek. “Since you've ruined my night. If I'm not getting laid, I might as well go to bed.”

He tripped, over a root or a rock or some imaginary obstacle, kept upright only by Derek's lightning fast reflexes. He pulled Stiles against him once more. Suddenly Stiles didn't have the energy to fight, so he slumped into Derek's embrace.

“Why won't you put me out of my misery?” he asked, clutching at Derek's sides. “If you don't want me, leave me alone.”

“What are you talking about?” Derek snapped, and just like that, Stiles was filled with anger fuelled adrenaline, the alcohol burning away temporarily.

“You know damn well what I'm talking about!” he yelled, pushing himself away from Derek once more, stumbling a bit but keeping his feet. “The constant hot and cold routine you've got mastered. Touching me and smiling at me and sniffing me all the time...making me believe I've got a chance with you and then backing off and ignoring me for weeks, only to show up and talk to me as if I'm your confidante, making me think that you do care, that you like me, that you want something more. “

“It's not that simple,” Derek said, but Stiles interrupted him.

“No, it's my turn to talk now,” he said.

“You never stop talking,” Derek interjected.

“Well this time, I have something to say,” Stiles insisted. “I'm sick of the back and forth, Derek. I'm sick and fucking tired of wondering if you're ever going to kiss me. If you even want to kiss me. If you like me at all, or maybe you do, but just not enough.”

“Stiles.”

“Are we just friends? Am I just your unlikely confidante, the plucky, awkward guy that nobody really wants but everyone dumps their shit on? 'Cause you made me think there was more to it, Derek, with the constant touching and the getting up in my space all the time. And don't think I haven't noticed you scent marking me, and my stuff, whenever I go back to college. I'm not an idiot, and this isn't my first time at the werewolf rodeo, but I just can't figure if it's all in my head, or...”

Whatever Stiles was going to say disappeared from his mind when Derek kissed him, pulling all the anger and frustration away with every nip of his lips or swipe of his tongue. Stiles didn't hesitate to kiss him back, throwing his arms around Derek's neck and leaning fully into him, not wanting to miss a single second of the best kiss of his life. If he only got one kiss with Derek, he wanted to make it last.

His head was spinning again, but he couldn't tell if it was the alcohol reasserting itself in his bloodstream, or the giddy arousal that sang through his veins.

Derek pulled back at last, letting Stiles breathe, but with no intentions of letting him go. His mouth slid down Stiles' neck, making Stiles shiver as his blood rushed through him, pooling in his groin. The sleepiness he'd been feeling had dissipated, and he was feeling more energised with every swipe of Derek's tongue.

“Finally,” he whispered, digging his hands into Derek's hair which he was pleased to find out, was as soft and thick as he'd thought it would be. He tugged hard, earning a moan, and it accomplished his goal of pulling Derek's mouth back to his, deepening the kiss even further, until he though he could crawl right inside Derek and be happy for the rest of his life.

Derek pulled back again, holding Stiles close with one hand as the other groped in his pocket, successfully claiming his keys.

“You gonna take me to bed, big bad wolf?” Stiles asked, his words only slightly slurred. It was an improvement.

“I'm going to put you to bed,” Derek said, though Stiles was sure he could feel the hard line of Derek's erection against his hip. “I'm not sleeping with you tonight. You're white girl wasted, Stiles.”

“Not too drunk to know I want you,” Stiles insisted, stumbling a bit when Derek managed to open the door and push him inside. “I've wanted you for years, Derek, years! And now that I know you want me too, I'm not gonna let this go. No back takesies...er...”

“I'm not going to take anything back,” Derek said, propping Stiles against the wall and tugging off his shoes. Stiles couldn't help but notice that Derek took his shoes off as well, that had to be a good sign, right?

“Promise,” Stiles said, wrapping his arms around Derek's waist and holding on for dear life, certainly not helping at in with Derek's attempt to get him to the stairs. The sleepiness was back with a vengeance, apparently.

“I promise,” Derek agreed. He gave up on trying to get Stiles to move of his own volition and picked him up, fireman style, and carried him up the stairs.

“Nice view,” Stiles commented, reaching out and trying to grab Derek's ass with his dangling hands, succeeding in slapping it a few times, and that was enough for him. He was giddy, high on alcohol and exhaustion and Derek, but lucid enough to hope that he remembered this in the morning.

Derek put him gently on the bed, pulling off his jacket and jeans, which was enough to make Stiles' half hard dick twitch with interest, but before he could do anything about it, Derek pulled the blanket over him, tucking him in.

“Stay,” Stiles pleading, pulling a hand free of the duvet and grabbing at Derek's arm.

“I will,” Derek agreed, running his fingers over Stiles' forehead and into his hair, making Stiles sigh in bliss, his eyes drooping closed.

“Stay forever,” Stiles mumbled, but it was getting harder to move, his body falling prey to the need for sleep, finally slipping out of consciousness.

 

**

 

Stiles cracked one eye open and groaned as a lone sliver of light escaped through his blinds, cutting straight across his face and into his head, bringing a shock of pain with it. He could vaguely make out a water bottle on his bedside table, and grabbed for it, somehow managing to open it and take a few deep swallows without spilling too bad. There were two small white pills in a dish beside it, and he grabbed at them eagerly, hoping that he'd had the forethought to put them there, but fearing it had been his dad.

He vaguely remembered being at The Jungle, drinking, grinding and...oh, right. There was a blow job in the bathroom and then a bumpy car ride back home, and yeah...that was a warm, solid weight behind him. He winced, not looking forward to the awkwardness of getting whatever guy he'd picked up the night before out of his bed and his house before his dad found out about and gave him the disappointed judgey eyes.

More memories drifted to the surface and he remembered Derek standing over him after he fell out of the cab, remembered whatever his name is being angry and driving off in the cab without coming inside. He remembered yelling at Derek and being carried up the stairs and suddenly it all came back.

He remembered kissing Derek. He remembered Derek kissing him. And promising not to leave, that he wouldn’t take it back.

He breathed a sigh of relief, hoping desperately that it hadn't been some alcohol fuelled delusion, that it was really Derek's warm, solid shape in the bed behind him. He rolled over gingerly, careful not to jostle the man sleeping in his bed and was rewarded by the sight of Derek, sleep mussed and beautiful in the early morning light.

Stiles let out a shaky sigh, settling down beside the man he'd been in love with for years, still praying to whatever deity may exist that this was real and Derek was really here.

“Stiles?” Derek mumbled, cracking open his eyes before stretching and then resettling, this time with one large arm draped across Stiles, wrapping around his hip and pulling him close.

“You're still here,” Stiles whispered, letting his hands drift up Derek's chest to his neck, his fingers fiddling with the scruffy beard he loved so much.

“Promised you, didn't I?” Derek replied, shuffling closer, and there it was, Derek's cock, half hard and hot and nudging Stiles' through their boxers. “Do you still want me here?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, reverent, as if all the good things in the world had come to pass and were centered his his bed. “Always want you here.”

“I'll always be here,” Derek promised, smiling softly at Stiles like all his dreams come true. “No take backsies.”

Stiles laughed, pulling Derek in for a kiss, uncaring about the morning breath or the call of his bladder or his dad who was no doubt sleeping across the hall. Derek was here with him, after so many years of wanting it, and Stiles didn't want to waste another second wondering.