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Flowerwolf & Beacon Roots

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“Your sister says you need to get laid.”

Derek chokes on his coffee – the caramel mocha with chocolate whipped cream, made exactly how he likes it from the coffee shop on the corner – and sputters in surprise, his cheeks going hot. He had been hoping, ever since Stiles, out of the blue, sauntered into his shop with coffee, pulling Derek away from the bridal bouquets he was making and into a casual, friendly conversation, that one of his many daydreams about the younger man was actually coming true, that he was here to ask him out.

But apparently not. No, Stiles’ surprise visit is a result of Laura doing exactly what he asked her not to, it seems. Derek doesn’t know why he’s surprised. Laura promised the day she became his alpha – the day Derek got his pack killed – that she would never use her power over him unless it was to save his life, but that doesn’t mean she’d ever respect his wishes and not meddle with his life in human ways.

Stiles Stilinski is the twenty-something, endearingly attractive tattoo artist that started working at Beacon Roots, the tattoo parlor neighboring Derek’s florist shop, a couple of months ago, and who Derek hasn’t been able to get out of his head since Scott, Beacon Roots’ owner (and the only werewolf in town other than he and Laura), brought him by to introduce him; Stiles is Scott’s childhood best friend who left Beacon Hills for college and lived abroad and then in New Orleans for a few years before returning to his home town.

At least, that’s what Derek thinks Stiles said as he wandered through the shop, mahogany-and-honey eyes bright and big as they glittered over the featured display of dahlia bouquets at the front of the store. Derek had been so entranced by Stiles’ beauty and stunned by his own response to it – fluttering nerves that made him even more taciturn and stoic than usual – he had a hard time focusing on what he was saying. Stiles’ arms are leanly muscled and painted with bright tattoos, including a wolf silhouette on his forearm that made Derek’s own wolf perk up in curiosity and pleasure. Stiles smelled like ink and sunlight and spice, and Derek was enchanted.

Which was paralyzing and confusing as hell, because Derek doesn’t date, doesn’t do much of anything other than work in his shop and his garden at home, both always alongside Ronan, the part-wolf, part-mutt rescue he adopted years ago and whose very wolf-like appearance provides the non-supernatural explanation for his store’s name, Flowerwolf. He hasn’t been on a date in over a decade, in fact, and is perfectly fine spending the vast majority of his time alone.

His attraction to this compelling almost-stranger is chipping away at that ever-so-slightly, though, and so when Stiles showed up about twenty minutes ago bearing a blinding smile and a perfect coffee, Derek had let himself hope, even if that hope was soured by his heavy cynicism and his firm belief in the infinity of his solitude.

And Derek’s right for doubting it, of course, because after a few minutes of small talk, Stiles, leaning his elbows on the counter next to the register, fluttering his eyes up at where Derek’s standing behind it, trying to drink the coffee he brought him, says that.

“Your sister says you need to get laid.”

“Laura sent you,” Derek manages to ask, hating that he sounds more disappointed that irritated. He crosses his arms, makes himself a wall. Ronan stretches up from his bed under the desk behind the counter and comes to stand at his side, leaning against his thigh.

“Sent me? What?” Stiles stands up then, sincerely confused it seems, but Derek isn’t convinced yet. Laura can be relentless, and her haranguing for him to “for the love god, just go find someone to fuck already” has gotten more insistent lately, and turned into “you should fuck Stiles” after he did her newest tattoo, a series of moon phases up her spine. Derek had told her, firmly, not to try and set them up, but of course she ignored him. “Laura didn’t send me,” Stiles goes on, heartbeat steady and oddly reassuring. He rubs the back of his neck with a big, tattooed hand, smiling an awkward grimace. “I, uh, ran into Laura at a bar last night? I asked her about, I actually asked her if you were seeing anyone.”

Derek tries not to show his surprise, curiously hopeful, but still suspicious of Laura’s involvement. “Oh. How do you know my coffee order then?”

He grins. “The cute baristo knows your order, dude. All I had to do was ask for Grumpy Flower Guy’s usual.”

Derek huffs. “I’m not grumpy.”

“He says grumpily,” Stiles smirks, winking.

The sound of his own laughter surprises Derek, so yeah, okay, maybe Stiles has a point.

“Laura said that you weren’t really into dating,” Stiles goes on, “but that uh, you uh, well you know.” Stiles’ cheeks flush a very pretty ruddy pink under the scatter of beauty marks that Derek aches to taste. Stiles turns away, towards the cooler of roses, muttering to himself under his breath, which of course Derek can hear perfectly well. “Great freakin’ advice, Lydia, ‘just bring up sex and tell him you’re cool with having a one night stand,’ okay, sure, that worked fucking beautifully.”

“Okay.” The word is out of his mouth before Derek can even think about the consequences of saying it, something unusual for him. He wants Stiles however he can get him, it seems.

“Okay?” Stiles eyes are wide when he spins back to look at him.

“Yeah, okay. Let’s have sex.” Derek’s starting to flush more, surprised at his own boldness and at how quickly his cock hardens when he gets a lungful of Stiles’ spiking, sweet arousal. This is better, he thinks. No need to bother with the exhausting and frightening prospect of dating again. He can have a fun night with Stiles, satisfy his nagging attraction, and that will be that.

Stiles stares at him, still and assessing for a long beat, before shaking himself free from his surprise, smiling big and full of mischief. “Your place or mine?”


Derek typically doesn’t like having people over to his house, but he’s even less comfortable in other people’s homes, and besides, he’s pretty sure Stiles lives in Scott’s basement, so he gave Stiles directions to his secluded house on the western slope of the preserve and told him to come over at eight.

He closes up the shop promptly at six and walks to the store to buy a couple bottles of wine before driving home, Ronan sticking his head out the passenger window as usual while Derek taps his fingers nervously on the steering wheel. He lets him loose for his nighttime walk about through the preserve, knowing he’ll let himself in the dog door at the back of the house when he’s good and ready.

Derek eats a quick dinner and straightens up a bit around the house, cleaning up his clutter of drawings for floral designs and a new greenhouse and some metal sculptures he’s been thinking about. The table in the breakfast nook is currently colonized by his ever-growing rare orchid collection (hence the new greenhouse), so there’s really not much to be done about the chaos in the kitchen other than wash the few dishes in the sink, which he does quickly and then heads upstairs to change the sheets on his bed and take a shower.

He finally relaxes a little bit once he’s under the steaming hot spray, pulls his hair out of its usual bun and runs his fingers through it, sighing at the feeling of the hot water against his skull. His fingers massage soothingly as he washes and conditions his hair, thinking about his conversation with Laura from last week, the day after she got her tattoo, which Scott burned for her after Stiles did the ink.

“He’s single and into dudes, Derek. You need to jump on that.”

“Laura, stop.”

“And he knows about werewolves already! He’s perfect for you.”

“He’s at least a decade younger than me.”

“Twelve years. He’s twenty-seven.”

“Exactly. He was in high school the last time I dated, which by the way, ended in death. Again.”

“I’m pretty sure Scott McCall’s lifelong best friend isn’t a deranged emissary trying to harvest your supernatural power in a vengeance quest against her former alpha lover.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have guessed that about Jennifer either until it was almost too late, so just give it a rest, okay? I’m not going to date Stiles. I’m not going to date anyone.”

“Are you really going to let some bad experiences with relationships stop you from ever trying to be happy again? You’re totally okay with looking down the barrel of forty as a recluse florist who only talks to his dog and his plants?”

“A recluse florist werewolf. That makes me interesting.”

“But still alone.”

“That’s how I prefer it.”

“Well you should at least have sex with Stiles. He’s hot and fuck knows you need to get laid.”

“Stay out of my sex life, Laura.”

“What sex life, Derek?”

She did, unfortunately, have a point. Laura doesn’t know the details, but Derek had to concede, at least to himself, that it’s been awhile. More than a year since anyone but him touched his cock, since his last hurried, anonymous blowjob in the backroom at Jungle. He’s more than skilled at keeping his needs met on his own, however, is well practiced with his toys and has an ample porn file on his laptop, and he keeps himself satisfied, mostly.

It’s been more difficult since he met Stiles and hasn’t been able to stop himself from fantasizing about him, his attraction growing as he watches Stiles walk by his shop on his way to get coffee a couple times a day, often looking in the window to smile and wave. And then, a couple weeks ago Stiles came in to the shop with his dad, the sheriff, and they bought a large arrangement to take to Stiles’ mother’s grave, and Stiles was somber and quiet but still smiled sweetly at him. And then a few days after that, he and Scott came in arguing playfully, demanding that Derek judge which one had drawn more realistic cherry blossoms for a tattoo (Stiles, who cackled wildly at his victory and patted Derek heartily on the shoulder, letting his hand linger for just a moment).

Stiles has been hovering at his periphery, always leaving his alluring scent in his wake, crawling under his skin and beckoning at him with his easy smiles and expressive beauty, making Derek wonder what it might be like to get close to him, bury his face in his neck and breathe him in deep and hold him close, try to have something like intimacy again, especially with someone as compelling as Stiles.

And it’s unsettling, because Derek decided long ago that being around people, getting close to others, would only to continue to result in pain and betrayal, if not carnage. He’s always been a solitary person, especially for a werewolf, and his run of terrible luck in romance and his resulting solitude hasn’t been as difficult for him as Laura likes to think it has. He finds companionship and fulfillment in his writing, his dog, and yes, his plants: things that accept nurturing honestly and without demand.

So Derek showers and he’s nervous, which is new, but exciting too, because he so, so badly wants to have sex with Stiles, and he has to repeatedly remind himself that there are no strings attached, which is both reassuring and slightly upsetting in a way he refuses to dwell on. Instead he focuses on cleaning himself thoroughly, pulse quickening at the thought of asking Stiles to fuck him. He bottoms so rarely; guys always expect him to top, given the way he looks. Derek enjoys it well enough, but he truly loves to be fucked, and goddamn, he wants it from Stiles.

When he gets out of the shower, Derek wipes away steam from the large mirror over the counter and towel-dries his hair, standing naked and studying his reflection, adjusting to the thought of letting someone touch him again, trying to see himself through Stiles’ eyes.

His hair is longer than it’s ever been, brushing the tops of his shoulders. It’s been more than a week since he’s shaved, and he runs his fingers through his scruff, soft on his fingers, wonders what it will feel like rasping over Stiles’ skin. His chest and stomach are dark with hair too, and of course there’s the wild tangle at the base of his cock, and he finds himself hoping Stiles likes hairy guys.

If he were human, Derek’s hands would be callused from his endless hours in the garden and dotted with cuts and thorn pricks from his work in the shop; as it is, they’re smooth, and, hopefully, gentle. The abilities that keep his skin unmarred also mean he’s aged well, he thinks, studying his face. His eyes are lined at the corners but they’re still clear and bright, and Laura says the strands of gray at his temples make him look distinguished. He’s still heavily muscled, whether due to his werewolf DNA or his regular runs and workouts, he’s not sure.

Derek thinks about Stiles’ tattoos, gorgeous intricacies mapping his skin, how he wants to taste them, how bare his own skin is going to look next to his, the Hale triskele on his back his only ink, which he twists to look at in the mirror, looking over his back and then down to his ass, evaluating. He’s held together pretty well, he decides, hoping Stiles will think so too.

The rumble of an old car, that old blue Jeep he’s seen Stiles drive, surprises him, makes him jump. He’s completely lost track of time and now Stiles is here and he’s still naked, for fuck’s sake – well, it is a one night stand after all – so he tucks the towel around his hips and grabs a hairtie and runs downstairs, twisting his still-damp hair into messy knot at the back of his head just before he swings opens the door.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whines, whines, his scent bursting with earthy-sweet arousal, and then Derek has an armful of Stiles, electric, a live wire, vibrant in his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, mouth capturing his in the best hello of his life.


Derek falls heavily against him, pushing him into the wall at the bottom of the stairs, deepening the kiss, something like a growl falling to pieces in the chaos of their lips, warm and wet. He finally breaks the kiss to nuzzle and bite into his neck, eyes rolling back at the blossoming of his scent, as intoxicating as the moan of pleasure it elicits from him as Stiles rocks his hips and squeezes his thighs tighter around him, hand flinging the towel from its precarious perch on Derek’s hips.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” Stiles mewls, gnawing on Derek’s ear, hands big and eager on his back.

Derek gets Stiles’ t-shirt off of him without tearing it to pieces, barely. “S’re you,” he mumbles into his collarbone, nearly overwhelmed already and they’ve barely just begun. His cock his arching hard against his belly, grinding against the rough fabric of Stiles’ jeans, which Derek is pawing at, usually deft hands clumsy in his haste to get Stiles as naked as he is. He kisses him again, feverish and filthy, licking into his mouth hungrily before pulling back, breathing hard. “Stiles, I want you to fuck me.”

Stiles’ eyes – pupils so big that rich honeyed amber Derek adores so very much is almost gone – definitely go big in surprise, but he recovers quickly, smiling big. “I very much want that,” he says, big hands – god, those fingers – squeezing and cupping his ass, looking at Derek with something like wonder, like he’s too good to be true, and Derek decides to let himself believe it, just for tonight.

Derek clutches on to Stiles’ ass, tight and firm and perfectly shaped for his palms but still maddeningly clothed, and carries him up the stairs, his body solid and firm but oh-so-easy for Derek to haul around, and he most definitely notices the spike in Stiles’ scent when he manhandles him, and Derek is very intrigued by that.

Once in his bedroom he lets Stiles drop to his feet so he can finally get naked, and fuck, what a vision he is, all lean lines and wiry muscle under his illustrated skin, long narrow waist that Derek wants to lick the contours of as they lead up to his surprisingly broad shoulders, fox tattoo on his chest, a dark line of coarse hair leading down from his navel to the base of his big, uncut cock that has Derek salivating.

He’s fucking extraordinary.

Stiles pushes Derek, dazed by the beauty before him, until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Stiles drops to his knees with a grin and wink, licking his lips, and Derek knows in that moment, feeling his heart clench, that he wants so much more than one night.


Still reeling from his orgasm – he came with an aching grunt down Stiles’ throat, thumbs tucked into the corners of his eager mouth – Derek lets Stiles roll him over so he’s on all fours, exposed, body twitching in anticipation, half-hard cock heavy between his legs.

Stiles palms his ass, spreading him, groaning appreciatively, voice thick with Derek’s come when he starts mumbling praise. “Sweet little hole…look at how tight you are…fuck.” Derek rocks his hips, instinctual, presenting, starving, aching to be mounted, head falling between his shoulders. Stiles’ precome, dripping down his lovely dick, is fragrant in the air, making Derek whine a little bit when he breathes in deep. “You want me to fuck you, Derek, baby?” Derek can’t answer, can barely nod, the endearment lodging itself somewhere near his heart, feels his claws slip free and rend his sheets before he gets control again, blushing at Stiles’ muffled laughter, hot on his skin.

When Stiles speaks again, his lips are feather light against his cleft, teasing whispers that make him shiver and flame with want. “Want me to lick you wet, fuck your sweet, pretty ass with my tongue before I give you my cock?”’

Derek lets his body answer, clenching and unfurling his hole in invitation. Stiles gasps lightly and then stops teasing, licks him hard and wet from his balls all the way up across his begging hole, getting him good and slick before teasing at his rim with the tip of his tongue, slipping in slowly, stretching gently, hands massaging as they hold him open. Stiles mutters something else, nearly imperceptible but Derek hears it, feels the shape of his words against where he’s exposed for him, “Derek, fuck, you taste so good,” a broken whine before he plunges his tongue as far in as he can go, like he can’t hold back anymore. Stiles eats him out like he’s insatiable, starving for it, licking and twisting and tonguing into him until he’s dizzy, cock throbbing.

When he’s begging to come again, his voice breathless and needy, Stiles pulls off, asks for lube. Derek helps him retrieve the bottle from the nightstand, their mouths meeting in a hurried, frenzied kiss, Derek nearly coming at the taste of himself on Stiles’ tongue. Stiles wastes no time slicking up two fingers and slipping them easily into his kiss-fucked hole, making Derek throw his head back and practically howl with the jolt of white hot pleasure that courses through him, straight from the tips of Stiles’ fingers, long and reaching.

Stiles arches over him and to the side a little, chest against his back and mouth hot next to his ear, the hand not steadily working him open going to tangle in his hair, pulling it free from its tie so it falls in a damp cascade down his neck. Stiles darts down to bury his face in it, breathing deep and moaning, basking it seems, scent already so thick with demanding, fiery lust sweetening even more. “Stiles, please,” Derek begs, coming undone, aching to be fucked.

Stiles kisses the back his neck, nibbles on his shoulder. “You ready, Der? You’re fucking starving for my cock, aren’t you?” Derek nods, shameless, because it’s the truth. “How do you want it, baby?” Stiles strokes his hair, a demanding, a rough, passionate edge underlying the gentleness of his husky voice, still fingering him, stretching, his hands a revelation. “Want it like this, on all fours like the wolf you are?” He bites at his neck, playful and sweet. “Want it on your back, legs spread wide like a good little cockslut…or do you want to ride me, use my cock until you come?”

Yes, yes to it all, Derek thinks, wants whatever Stiles will give him. Instead he has just enough self control left to not say anything in the heat of the moment that he might regret, gasps and grunts, moves quickly to pull Stiles around into another long, bruising kiss before rolling out from under him, hissing at the loss of his fingers, dragging him to sit on the edge of the bed where Derek had been earlier.

Stiles moves easily under Derek’s hands, skin and scent hot and eager, eyes glittering, mouth red and swollen. Derek straddles him, holding his gaze through the locks of hair falling in his face as he looks down, positioning himself over Stiles’ seeking cock. Stiles holds him open as Derek sinks down slow and smooth, readied slick and open by Stiles’ tender attentions, his body accepting him easily, locking them together. Derek settles in the cradle of Stiles’ narrow hips and lithely muscled thighs, lets his body quake and flame with how incredible Stiles feels nestled so deep, with the exhilarating flutters of his heart when Stiles’ buries his face between his pecs, muttering, “oh god, oh fuck, Derek,” over and over, like a mantra, like he’s coming undone with pleasure too.

Derek can’t bother with finesse or teasing, his need too strong, the fire Stiles ignited him the first time they met fully stoked now, demanding and all-consuming. Stiles starts rocking up into him and Derek starts to rise up and down and roll his hips, crashing against and within each other, chaotic and needy and clumsy until they find a rhythm, Derek kissing and panting into Stiles’ temple, arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, Stiles licking and sucking at Derek’s nipples, hands cradling the back of his neck, fingers winding in his hair.

It’s a riotous, fevered fucking, hungry bodies feeding each other, Derek moving faster and faster as he takes what he so badly needs, Stiles’ cock pounding into his prostate, his own bouncing and leaking against his tattooed belly. Derek’s eyes search hungrily around Stiles’ captivating face, eyes blown wide and dazed, cheeks ruddy. Never ceasing the riding roll of his hips, he leans down to lick at the constellation of moles across his cheek, savoring the blossoms of pleasure and happiness in Stiles’ scent. He licks the sheen of sweat from his temple, the taste of him sparking wild and sweet on his tongue.

Stiles tosses his head back, exposing the succulent curve of his neck, a deliberate move to tease his wolf, Derek knows. He practically purrs at the sight, letting his eyes glow blue, sucking the hot little gasp of pleased surprise from Stiles’ lips before running his mouth along his lightly-stubbled jaw and down to that tantalizing, vulnerable expanse of gorgeous flesh, clamping down with his blunt human teeth with a shuddering growl, electric spasms of pleasure shaking through him from head to toe, covering Stiles’ stomach and chest in thick, musky come, tightening and clenching around his cock.

“Oh fuck, Derek, fuck,” Stiles moans, the hand tangled in his hair pulling hard as he comes, pulsing into Derek’s greedy ass. Derek, still reverberating from his own orgasm, keeps clenching him tightly, keeps biting and kissing at his neck, wants so badly to make this good for him, sighs in utter delight when Stiles uses the hand in his hair to pull his head up so he can smother him with a sloppy, mesmerizing kiss.

When they’ve both recovered enough to move, they crawl clumsily up the bed and under the covers, Derek basking in the feel of Stiles’ come dripping from him, his heart fluttering when Stiles presses up against him, resting his head on his chest, skin tacky with come. The feeling intensifies when he thinks about how his bed his going to smell like Stiles, like their fucking, for days, maybe even weeks if he’s lucky, and as he drifts off to sleep, he can’t help but dwell, in his sex haze, on the wish that he could keep Stiles himself in his bed instead, maybe forever.


Sometime in the night, they wake and move together wordlessly. Derek gets Stiles on his back and crawls over him, moves down his long, lean torso slowly, suckling his pink nipples until they’re erect and puffy, licking into his armpit, slicking the dark hair there with his spit, letting himself get drunk on the concentrated, heady scent of him. He lets his hair drift across his skin, smiling at how it rises in response, at how Stiles mewls so prettily. His cock is hard and heavy in his mouth, but Derek only teases him, is achingly desperate to taste his ass, and Stiles is so perfectly pliant and eager as Derek flips him over, keeps him on his belly, licks into him with a hunger he’s never felt before, devouring him while Stiles ruts against the bed until he comes, screaming into a pillow. Licking his lips, smiling at the mess Stiles has made of his sheets, Derek rises to his knees between Stiles’ splayed thighs, stroking his throbbing cock hard and fast, using his other hand to cup one perfectly-shaped, taut ass cheek, spreading, so he can spill long, thick ribbons across his beard-burned hole. Heart racing, Derek pushes some of his come inside of him, still squeezing drips from his tip and on to Stiles' ass, delving a finger into his warm velvet heat before returning his tongue to his skin and his tender rim, licking him clean before crawling back to lie beside him, falling asleep curled around him, again.


When bright rectangles of sunlight pour across his face, Derek slips his eyes open and is face to face with the dog, which is not at all unusual – what is unusual, though is that instead of being curled up next to him, Ronan is stretched on his side facing Derek, Stiles spooned behind him, face buried in the dog’s fur, sleeping heavily, astoundingly beautiful in the early morning light.

Derek doesn’t want to move, doesn’t dare disturb this perfection, knows that when Stiles wakes he’ll leave, and the thought of that makes his gut churn with sadness, with fear, because he wants nothing more than for him to stay.

It scares him, how badly he wants to stay in bed with Stiles all morning, lazily making love again before cooking him breakfast and never, ever letting him go. Maybe it’s the incredible sex, or the way Stiles looks at him like he’s challenging and comforting him at the same time, or the way his smile makes him feel warm and safe like he hasn’t felt since he had a pack. Whatever it is, Derek wants more of it, wants more of Stiles, always and all the time.

Wants him enough that the fear of letting him leave strikes him far deeper than his long-held fear of becoming close to someone again, and that realization hits him like an epiphany, jolts him wide awake. He slides out of bed silently, Ronan’s eyes watching him approvingly.

He slips on a pair of soft fleece sleep pants and a dark green Henley to protect against the early morning chill, ties his hair up, and creeps quietly downstairs and starts a pot of coffee before slipping on his rubber boots and heading out back to the greenhouse.

His stock at the store is supplied by local farmers, of course, but these flowers are for his own personal pleasure, the small greenhouse he, Laura, and Boyd built a few years ago a veritable jungle of petals and foliage, every flower he can possibly get to grow to vibrancy under his careful, skillful hands. There’s a box of clean mason jars on the shelf in the corner, and he grabs a liter sized one and a pair of sharp garden shears. Derek works quickly, wanting to get back to Stiles before he wakes, moving through the explosive sprays of color he’s nurtured, grabbing flowers for their symbolic associations rather than for arrangement design.

Bachelor button for anticipation, aster for contentment, illumination begonia for insight, white chrysanthemum for truth. Larkspur for beauty of spirit, passion flower for, well, passion. Derek grins, cutting several of those. Star of Bethlehem for hope, violet for faithfulness, and finally, of course, red roses for love.

He won’t be able to say any of this to Stiles, not yet, but he’ll let the flowers do the talking for now, even if Stiles likely won’t know what he means, that’s okay. He arranges the stems in the jar, an anarchic spray of color and shape that somehow seems to work, at least to his lovestruck eye.

Back in the kitchen, he fills the jar halfway with water and pours a mug of coffee before heading upstairs, padding into his bedroom with his meager offerings just as Stiles is waking up.

Stiles blinks adorably, twitching his nose against Ronan’s dark fur and looking up at him as he sits up, the wolf-dog groaning in irritation and leaping off the bed, the sheets falling around Stiles’ hips, revealing his gorgeously hickied and tattooed chest. “For a second there I thought you turned into an actual wolf, then I remembered Ronan.”

“I’ll always give you a warning before I shift fully,” Derek tells him sincerely, unsure if the resulting surprise in Stiles’ expression is for the knowledge that Derek can, in fact, shift into a full wolf, or for Derek speaking as if they have a future.

“What’s all this,” Stiles asks, eyes lighting on the bright bouquet.

“For you,” Derek says shyly, almost bashful, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. He places the flowers on the nightstand and hands Stiles the coffee, preening when he accepts it with a smile, his scent warming with contentment as he sips at it, eyes closing in bliss.

After a moment he opens them to hold his gaze, searching, for what, Derek’s not sure, but he hopes he likes whatever he finds there. “This is unexpected,” Stiles says quietly, questioning. He puts the mug down next to the flowers. “Do you always wake up your one night stands with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers and amazing coffee?”

Derek leans close and cups his face in his palms, thumbs across the graceful arc of his cheeks, tries to tell him with his eyes, with his touch, what he can’t find words for yet. “No, I don’t,” he whispers, pulling him into a soft kiss, delighting in the bloom of happiness in his scent, so sweet and pure, close to bursting with joy himself, because Stiles is going to stay.