Stiles hasn’t seen Derek in six years, so when he shows up at the bar where Stiles works, claiming to be some indie rock star, Stiles can’t believe it. Stiles has even more trouble believing that he and Derek are about to have a one night stand.
Soon one night turns into two and three, and seeing Derek causes old wounds to open for Stiles. As Stiles reconnects with Derek, he finds himself painting things he’s been avoiding, and he thinks maybe he’ll finally start to heal.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Scott tries diplomatically, “the Hales are still waiting for Derek and Laura. Apparently they’re on the same plane home as Stiles.”
“Hot Hale Twins are coming back?” Stiles says a little surprised.
–OR–
The one where it’s very late, Stiles is stucked in an airport and bored out of his mind until he bumps into Laura Hale. And then into her Hot Twin Brother Derek Hale.
There’s handholding and a little bit of magic involved, it’s all pretty gross.
Awww, that’s so sad but so sweet at the same time. I can just imagine big, brooding Derek quietly asking Stiles if he can hold his hand when they’re out at a fair, or shyly asking if he can kiss Stiles.
Stiles never says “Duh” or “Stop asking” because he knows what happened to Derek in the past and he knows what it means to Derek, so every time Derek asks for affection Stiles smiles and says, “Please do.”
(My heart is melting over this! Thank you so much for sending it in!)
One day I will write something that isn’t tooth-rotting Sterek fluff, but today is not that day.
Title is from Pablo Neruda’s Crepusculario.
“… but I’ll be back by seven with dinner, so if you need me to pick anything up from the store before I get back, just text me.”
“Sure,” Derek said, barely concealing a smile as Stiles tried to simultaneously shrug into his jacket, finish pulling on his shoes and shove half a banana into his mouth on his way out the door. All he managed to actually accomplish was losing the banana in one of his sleeves and jamming the laces in under his foot, so Derek stilled him with hands firm on his shoulders and crouched down, slipped the wayward shoe off to retrieve the laces and helped Stiles slide it back on, tying the laces when he was done.
“Thank you,” Stiles breathed out, pathetically grateful, and Derek did smile this time.
“No problem,” he said, leaning forward and pressing his mouth briefly against Stiles’.
They both froze. That wasn’t a thing they did. Not ever. They weren’t… no matter how much Derek might… they didn’t do. That.
“Huh,” Stiles said thoughtfully, then just kind of swayed into Derek’s space and returned the kiss. It was as brief and chaste as Derek’s had been, but it made him frown a little, contemplatively, before he shrugged and smiled widely. “Okay. Gotta go. I’ll see you tonight!”
And then he was gone, leaving Derek standing alone in the front hall, wondering what the hell had just happened.
*
Things weren’t at all different after that day, a fact that Derek was pathetically grateful for. He hadn’t been sure how good an idea Stiles moving into the house would be when he returned home from college, but to everyone’s surprise but Stiles’, apparently, it was a match made in heaven. To have potentially messed it up with a thoughtless, unconscious display of affection had Derek’s stomach churning for the twelve hours that Stiles was on shift, only to have it all have been for nothing when Stiles came home exactly the same way he always did.
It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that it happened again, and this time Derek wasn’t the instigator. They were shopping for outdoor furniture on Stiles’ first day off in a fortnight, and even though he’d been uncharacteristically sombre over the previous few shifts, he was talking more and smiling again on an unremarkable Thursday morning and that was enough for Derek.
Standing in front of a solid wooden table that seated twelve, Derek smiled a little as Stiles sat in one of the chairs and leaned back, wiggling slightly to test the comfort. “I like it.
“There’s a matching daybed and porch swing back there,” Derek told him, gesturing back the way they’d come. “We’ll get those too. More comfortable for you to read on than this.”
Stiles, who was in the process of getting back to his feet, paused and glanced up at Derek in surprise. “You– that’s your decision-making rubric for furniture?”
Uncomfortable with being unable to read the expression on Stiles’ face, Derek shrugged. “You’d just complain about it, otherwise,” he said eventually. “The cost-benefit analysis makes sense.”
Standing fully upright, Stiles began to smile, a slow and sleepy thing. “You’re very sweet,” he said in a light tone, and slid one wide palm up to cradle the side of Derek’s face and touch their lips lightly together. “Don’t worry,” he added, stepping away. “I won’t tell anyone. Now let’s go and get those cushions with the kraken on them.”
“Octopus/octopus,” Stiles said with the exact same inflection as he wandered away.
*
It became something that they did, after that. Not always, not in front of the others, and it was never discussed, but Derek thought it was… nice. More than nice, actually, but nice meant he didn’t have to think too hard about it or read too much into it, so.
Nice.
Stiles had always been tactile, it was one of the irrefutable facts of the universe. He had always been especially hands-on with Derek, something that had confused him and made him suspicious in the early days of their acquaintance when Stiles would instigate touch even as he reeked of fear. That hadn’t changed with this new thing that they did, but the intent behind it had shifted. There was a deliberateness there that Derek hadn’t noticed before, and a lingering that made his belly flip over, yet another thing he wasn’t investigating too closely.
With every kiss, whether to mouth or cheek or hand, or even the pulse point at the base of Stiles’ throat when he leaned quietly against Derek in the kitchen, morning yet to paint the sky as they stood still together before the wide windows over the sink as mugs of tea or coffee sending thick plumes of steam curling up into the air, Stiles’ fingers inevitably followed. They touched briefly at the back of Derek’s head, rested gently and comfortably on his hip, wrapped thoughtlessly around his own fingers, thumb stroking over the lifeline on his palm.
It sustained Derek, filled him up with warmth and comfort and home, and he treasured the long moments of togetherness they shared, affection and presence offered freely and without agenda for him to bask in. He began to remember that happiness had once felt a lot like this.
*
It was almost two in the morning by the time Stiles finally came home, the fatigue of far too much overtime casting a sickly pallor over his ordinarily-mobile face and shadowing his eyes. Derek was sitting at the kitchen table, having woken when he heard the sound of tyres on the driveway, waiting for the kettle to boil with just the light from the rangehood to illuminate the room.
“There’s pyjamas fresh from the dryer in the bathroom,” Derek called as Stiles shrugged out of his jacket and hung it in the hall closet before removing his shoes. “Do you want something to eat?”
“No, thanks,” Stiles sighed, and he sounded so flat, so defeated that Derek followed the sound of his voice and met him at the bottom of the stairs.
“What do you need?” he asked, barely enough light making into the hall to see by.
Stiles was silent for a long moment before smiling faintly, raising his hand to run the backs of his fingers against Derek’s jaw. “Nothing,” he said eventually, his scent sweetening with melancholy. “Just a cup of tea, please. I’ll be back down in a minute.”
“Take your time,” Derek murmured, trapping Stiles’ hand against his face with his own hand, turning and pressing his lips lingeringly to the palm of it before Stiles disappeared upstairs. Derek returned to the kitchen and made a cup of the strong black tea that Stiles favoured, adding just a little milk when he heard the shower shut off. Resting his chin in his hand, Derek yawned widely as he waited for Stiles.
“You shouldn’t get up when I come home,” Stiles told him as he shuffled tiredly into the kitchen.
“Best part of my day,” Derek said softly, hooking an arm around Stiles’ waist and drawing him close so that he could press his face to the warmth of Stiles’ belly, rubbing back and forth like a tired child. “Having you come home to me.”
One of Stiles’ hands splayed over the tattoo on Derek’s back, the other gently cupped the back of his head as he sighed. “You have to stop saying things like that,” he finally said. “Derek…”
“Why?” Derek asked tiredly, pulling Stiles a little closer. “It’s true.”
“That’s exactly why,” Stiles explained patiently. “Because it’s true, but it means something different to you than it does to me. And I don’t think I can do that anymore.”
The words finally penetrated the sleep-dazed haze of Derek’s brain and he pulled back a little to rest his chin against Stiles’ side and look up at him. “I don’t think it does,” he said after a beat, the look on Stiles’ face and the desperate want in his eyes finally making Derek brave enough to say what he’d been aching to for years.
“You don’t get to–” Stiles began, trying to pull away, but Derek held him firmly in place as he got to his feet, remaining squarely in Stiles’ space.
“I think I do,” Derek told him firmly, bracing him back against the table. “Because,” he swallowed hard, “because I think maybe you’re in love with me. And I’m in love with you too.” The way Stiles had paled and then begun to flush at the confession was fascinating and beautiful, and Derek wanted to taste it.
“I want to kiss you all the time, for no real reason. I want to kiss you in front of the pack, in front of your colleagues, even in front of your dad, okay? I want you to kiss me when you’re laughing, when you’re angry, when you’re half asleep and can’t be bothered to even open your eyes enough to find my mouth. I want it without either of us thinking about it. I want to take it for granted. I want it to become a habit. I want it for the rest of our lives.”
Stiles stared at him wordlessly for so long that Derek began to think he’d misread the situation, but then Stiles smiled, wide and unrestrained and joyous, the shadow lifting from his eyes. “You’re not the best with words,” he said, laughter in his voice, “but by god you make them count when it matters most.”
Matching Stiles’ smile with one of his own filled Derek’s chest so full with something terrifying and all-encompassing that he felt his breath hitch.
“How many kisses do you think it’ll take before we take them for granted?” Stiles asked, winding both arms around Derek’s neck and shifting back to sit on the table and hook his ankles around the backs of Derek’s knees.
“More than either of us will ever have time for, even if I kissed you a thousand times a day,” Derek promised him.
“Derek,” Stiles smiled, love and promise turning the word into a sigh.
“I suppose we could get started on making it a habit, though,” Derek suggested, and the laugh in Stiles’ kiss was just as delicious as Derek had always imagined it would be.
Derek Hale/Stiles Stlinski Rating: T, Word Count: 858 Established Relationship, Scent Marking, Marking, Possessive Derek, Mates, Future Fic, POV Derek ♥ Read on AO3
‘Shut
up, Stiles.’
Derek watches with barely suppressed fury as Brady covers
Stiles’ mouth with his hand. He
clenches his jaw and breathes out a slow breath. It’s his job to
tell Stiles to shut up, and then Stiles will smirk and kiss him, remind Derek
that he likes it when he talks, then Derek will roll his eyes, but he wouldn’t disagree, because he does love
listening to Stiles talk, about anything. And fucking Brady, Mister Perfect Hair, Mister I Love Batman Too, Mister Hey
You Can’t Physically Harm Me For
Touching Your Mate And Taking Up All Of His Time Because That Might Screw Up
These Negotiations, is taking all of that from him.
‘If we
wanted audio commentary we would’ve used
the ones on the DVD,’ Brady
continues.
Stiles rolls his eyes, flips Brady off, and crosses his
arms, leaning further into Derek. When Brady removes his hand Derek can see a
smile playing on Stiles’ lips.
It feels like forever until the pack, and Brady, has left, and Derek is alone with
Stiles again. Derek throws the windows open and grabs the vacuum. Brady’s scent lingering in the apartment is
making his nose itch. Listens to Stiles hum and putting the dishes away, while
he vacuums.
‘So
sexy,’ Stiles says when he walks
into the living room. ‘I love
a man who can handle a vacuum.’
Derek snorts. ‘You ran
to the kitchen to do the dishes when I said we had to vacuum.’
‘Hence
my love for vacuuming men,’ Stiles
says. He grins and walks over to Derek.
Derek knows that glint in his eyes and quickly turns off
the vacuum and drops it, just in time to catch his mate when he jumps into his
arms.
‘That
does it for you?’ Derek chuckles. ‘Me doing household chores?’
‘It’s very sexy,’ Stiles hums. He presses their lips together, squeezing
his legs around Derek’s
waist, and running his hands through Derek’s hair,
scratching the scalp just the way Derek likes it. ‘The only thing that would make it better would be a French
maid uniform.’
‘Not a
chance.’
‘I’ll convince you. Somehow.’
And he probably could, so Derek quickly presses their
lips together again, and carries Stiles to the bedroom.
~
‘Where
are all my shirts?’ Stiles asks the next morning
as they’re getting dressed.
‘Laundry,
probably,’ Derek shrugs. Nothing
probably about it. He put them there.
‘Shit. I’m supposed to meet Brady for lunch.
We’re going over some of the details of the
pact. Fuck.’ Stiles dives back into their
closet.
‘Just
wear one of mine,’ Derek suggests. ‘Half our wardrobe is shared anyway.’
‘Good
point.’ Stiles dashes over to where
Derek is sitting on the bed, pulling on his socks. He plants a kiss onto his
cheek, then dashes back to the closet. ‘I love
you.’
It takes Stiles a couple more minutes to find a shirt,
then he disappears into the bathroom to brush his teeth.
‘Christ,
Derek,’ he mutters. ‘I said I like a guy who can handle a
vacuum, not a guy who is one.’
Derek grins.
‘There’s no way I’m gonna be able to cover these up!’
‘Then
don’t.’
It’s
suddenly very quiet in the bathroom.
‘Derek.’ Stiles’ voice
is low, both a warning and a question.
Derek grabs his phone and pretends to check his messages
as he innocently peeks up from under his eyebrows. ‘Yes?’
Stiles is standing by the bathroom door, hands on his
hips. ‘You know I love you, right?’
‘You
told me two minutes ago.’
‘And I
tell you every day, so what in the hell is with all the marking?’ Stiles asks. He gestures at his
neck, where two very large hickies are clearly visible, and plucks at the shirt
he’s wearing. ‘Brady knows I’m taken.
The whole being married and being mates, kinda gives it away.’
Derek blushes, but doesn’t respond.
‘And if
you’d actually talked to him, and not
just about pack stuff,’ Stiles
continues, ‘you’d know that he’s taken
too. He keeps showing me progress picks of his very pregnant mate. Their name
is Anya, and they’ve been together since high
school.’
Shame bubbles up in Derek’s
chest. He looks away from Stiles. ‘I’m sorry.’
Stiles sits down on the bed next to him, and takes Derek’s hands in his.
‘You
trust me, right?’
‘Of
course, I do.’ Derek looks up. He’s relieved when Stiles doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks
amused.
‘Then…’ Stiles gestures at his neck.
Derek looks away again, embarrassed. ‘He told you to shut up.’
‘What?’
‘I’m the only one who can say that!’
Stiles laughs at that, head thrown back, his entire body
shaking. He wraps his arms around Derek and pulls him down onto the mattress.
He wiggles himself underneath Derek, wrapping his arms and legs around him.
‘You’re so weird,’ he chuckles. He bumps their noses together. ‘I can’t
believe that’s the straw that broke the
wolfy’s back.’
‘Shut
up,’ Derek grumbles. He buries his face
in Stiles’ neck, inhaling the
deliciously mixed scent of them.
‘You
like it when I talk,’ Stiles
reminds him, and presses a kiss to Derek’s ear.
Of all the things Stiles thought Derek might say after knocking on his door unannounced in the middle of the night, that certainly wasn’t one of them.
Get your bat and gun, there’s goblins.
The Nemeton’s active again, we’re all demons now.
Hey, so it turns out leprechauns are real.
Everything’s on fire, I give up.
Honestly, pretty much anything other than asking if he’s legally able to cross international borders would have made more sense.
For the briefest of moments, in his heart of hearts, he wishes that Derek is here to declare is desperate, undying love for him – and also an insatiable sexual attraction. Ha, Stiles thinks ruefully. That makes even less sense.
But despite his confusion and sleepiness – he had been passed out on the couch in a puddle of bongwater when Derek’s knock awoke him – Stiles manages to answer his question. “Yeah,” he nods. “Got one for study abroad.”
Derek nods. “Good. Go get it, and some clothes. Let’s go,” he jerks his chin toward the driveway, where the Camaro is idling. His hands are shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket and he’s hunched over a bit, and if it weren’t for the beard, he’d look just as he did when they first met. It’s only been seven years, but so much has happened since, they’ve both been through and lost so much, it feels like a lifetime.
Stiles has always trusted Derek, and he learned a long time ago not to question his plans, even if they come out of nowhere and don’t seem to make any sense. So when Derek turns and walks back to his car, clearly indicating that Stiles should hurry the hell up, he does.
He turns off the TV and goes up to his bedroom. There’s a basket of clothes on the floor from the last time he did laundry, and he digs through it for a couple pairs of pants, some underwear, socks, and t-shirts, which he tosses into a Beacon Hills PD tactical duffel. Unsure of what Derek needs him for, he grabs his laptop and research journal too.
His passport is in the gun safe in the hall closet; he opens the digital combination lock with the code his father set years ago, his parents’ wedding anniversary. He knows he should change it – it’s too easy to guess, and each time he opens the thing he feels the grief of his father’s death all over again – but he hasn’t been able to bring himself to do it.
Stiles pushes the pain from his mind and grabs the passport, along with the stacks of emergency cash Derek gave him a few years ago after he was outed as a secret rich, and tosses them into the duffel. Derek didn’t give any clue about what they were doing or where they were going, but Stiles sure as hell isn’t going anywhere unarmed, so his H.K. and a box of .45 ammo go into the bag too. In the living room, he tosses his phone charger into the duffel, along with his stashbox and a couple lighters.
Stiles barely takes the time to lock the front door behind him before sliding into the Camaro’s passenger seat.
He doesn’t give the house a second glance as Derek speeds away.
~*~
They’re well out of town, weaving through the night on a mountain road towards the coast, when Stiles finally asks where they’re going.
Derek answers after a moment. “I don’t know. I just…need to get away for awhile. I was staring at the walls in the loft, pacing like crazy and…I was starting to feel like I couldn’t breathe there…I just wanted to escape,” he shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe I’m crazy.”
Stiles snorts a laugh. “Wanting to escape makes perfect sense. The crazy part is you wanting me to come with you for some reason.”
“Well then what does that make you for saying yes?”
“Even crazier than you, apparently,” Stiles says with a smirk.
“What a pair we make,” Derek says wryly, and they both laugh.
“But seriously though, why did you ask me to come with you?”
Derek looks over at him again, and Stiles has to ball his hand into a fist in his lap to keep from reaching out to touch him, to take his hand and hold on for dear life and never let go.
“I thought you’d might want to escape too,” Derek explains.
Stiles gets the distinct impression that there’s more to it than that, but he decides not to push it, for now.
They don’t speak for awhile, letting the quiet music from the stereo dance between them among the pleasantly cool rush of crisp night air from the open windows. Through the open moonroof, bits and pieces of constellations are visible through the treetops. Derek is definitely on to something, because for the first time in years, Stiles feels like can breathe freely.
“So,” he says eventually. “We’re just gonna, like, drive until we don’t want to anymore, and then see where we feel like going after that?”
Derek nods. “That’s pretty much what I was thinking. Maybe make our way down to Argentina to see Cora for a bit? Sound good to you?”
Stiles looks over at him. His eyes are reflecting slightly in the glow of the dash lights, making them glitter, making Stiles’ heart flutter even more.
“Hell yeah, Sourwolf.”
Derek growls and his eyes flash red, but it’s all bark, no bite.
Derek Hale, one of the most popular movie stars, is an
asshole. Or so Stiles thinks. He’s got this whole sexy playboy routine
going with it, but then Stiles will catch a glimpse of the man
underneath and it piques his interest – holds his attention. Stiles is
determined to figure him out.
Stiles Stilinski, a hard-working personal assistant, is annoying as
hell. Or so Derek says. He’s stubborn, and loud, and unfairly
considerate sometimes that Derek just wants to strangle him (read: kiss
him). But he’s one of the first people who seems to be willing to learn
the man he is underneath a Hollywood persona. Derek hopes he sticks
around.
theproblemwithstardust 