remembering when Shelley wrote a non-canon Ouyang/Baoxiang sex scene that was sent as part of the pre-order campaign for hwdtw and used these tags like
ouyang said nobody LEAST OF ALL ME is having a good time so long as I have anything to do with it
Feeling a perfectly normal amount of completely hinged emotions about the scene where Zhu visits Ouyang’s ger even though she has just barely recovered from having her hand cut off by him…..
"For a moment they just stood. The next, she was pinned against the tent wall with General Ouyang’s studded leather wristguard crushing her throat. She choked and kicked. Despite his small size, she might as well have tried to free herself from a statue’s grip. The scratchy tent fabric bowed outwards under their combined weight. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Wasn’t losing one hand enough?”
–
“Take what you like,” she ground out. “It takes more than that to destroy me.”
–
He took the lip of her helmet and lifted her head up so they were eye to eye. Even in her pain she marveled at the dark sweep of his lashes, and the fine brushstroke of his brows. As if he had some idea of her thoughts, he mused, “Apparently being as ugly as a cockroach makes you as resilient as one, too. But there are certain things nobody comes back from. Shall we try them, one by one?”"
ouyang really saw xu helping zhu with his hair and thought what the fuck are they doing in broad daylight. this is worse than seeing two people fucking. men don't act like this with each other. like ok. very normal thoughts here mister ouyang sir.
zhu and ouyang truly have the dynamic of all time. their fates are inextricably entwined. they're the same and yet they're opposites in many ways. they're the only ones who can truly understand each other and yet they're usually at odds with each other. they're extremely powerful together and yet they spend much of the story on opposite sides. she kills 10,000 of his men. he cuts off her hand. he lets her see him at his most vulnerable. she cares for him even after he betrays her. they have weird bdsm scenes that are technically nonsexual but still manage to be intensely erotic. they pretend to be married once. they're besties they're worsties they're queer solidarity and queer hostility they're enemies with benefits they're fucked-up soulmates. they're not romantic or platonic or a secret third thing but an even more secret fourth thing. who's doing it like them
Derek realizing Stiles thinks being alone on a bathroom floor all night is normal
“You didn’t have to." “I wanted to.”
"I'm fine," Stiles insists, even as he's keeling over the toilet and there isn’t a single gag before the contents of his stomach surge out. Derek frowns. Stiles will be fine, but he's not right now, no matter if he's already said it enough times to permanently damage his vocal chords.
Derek doesn't move. He... hasn’t actually been in the same room with someone else sick with food poisoning since…
Since.
Stiles waves behind him in a ‘get out’ gesture, head still deeply bowed in the bowl. “M’good. Just—”
More vomit.
“Yeah. Good,” Derek echoes, sure his mocking isn’t appreciated right now if Stiles can even hear past his nausea. The door creaks mostly closed as Derek remains in the Stilinski household bathroom with Stiles, snatching a washcloth from the shelf and flipping the faucet to the coldest temperature.
He lets it run for a minute.
Stiles can’t manage to talk over the sound of the water, which leaves him to look at Derek with a squinty look of accusation. Derek raises an eyebrow. It’s not a challenge, and even if it were, what’s Stiles going to do about it? His skin pallor is paler than Derek has ever seen it, the kind of pale someone turns before they faint. His fingers look like they’re in rigor mortis, clutching the toilet seat.
Derek sticks the cloth under the fresh, cold water.
Stiles’ gaze switches to something confused, like Derek’s movement has him seeing double—which it probably does—before his head whips back down. Stiles’ shoves himself down this time, like the uprising of his stomach compels him to, back rounding and throat retching.
Derek flips the faucet off just in time to hear the chunks of Stiles’ undercooked fish chowder return home to the water.
“You couldn’t have waited another second to turn that off?” Stiles… gurgles. It sounds like there’s a blockage in the base of his throat. A promise of more to come.
“Yes?” Stiles reasons, his voice is weak. “If puke smells bad to a human, I can't imagine what notes you pick up on. Like, the most disgusting version of a wine connoisseur. Plus, you're all scent pristine and shit. Jumpin’ on the kleenex bottle at one drop of rainwater ‘cause it doesn’t smell like pack.”
Stiles wipes his mouth against his wrist, which Derek is literally two seconds from giving him a washcloth for, but Stiles clearly hasn’t registered that. Instead he leans back, and apparently has given up on all strength together, as he drapes his arm over the seat and rests his cheek atop.
Topped off with an: “Ugh. Stop moving.”
Derek is rounding to the other side of Stiles, and he doesn’t exactly feel sorry, as Stiles pinches his eyes closed to stop looking at the Moving Thing before it tips off another round. Derek takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub, but it seems Stiles caught enough movement for his ‘I’m about to violently wretch my soul from my body’ position to return.
Head down, hands clutched, back hunched.
The chowder is still a solid stream with potato chunks and lumps of fish meat.
…. Really, does Stiles not chew his food?
Derek sticks the cold washcloth on the back of Stiles’ neck.
Stiles jerks, his scent surprised by the cool touch, but he relaxes into it. He doesn’t turn his head this time. This time, he just brings up an arm to rest on the seat and keeps his head down. Eyes closed.
“... feels nice,” Stiles says quietly.
Derek knows. He remembers. When his mother did it once for him as a child after he'd been poisoned. Though his poisoning hadn't been accidental or through food, but a wolfsbane bullet. Werewolves heal fast but they still have bodies that hurt.
“Move your head back,” Derek says instead. Stiles obeys without objection (for once) and Derek reaches over to flush.
“Knew it. One drop,” Stiles mumbles and is diagnosably delusional if he thought that was a drop.
“Right. Because whenever you eat anything, you only eat one drop.”
Stiles coils like a spring back into position and gags a good couple of times.
“Don’t—” He gasps. “Don’t ever mention anything about f-foo—hrrrk—”
Derek is tempted to at least say the word ‘food’ now and it’s not even entirely for self-entertainment. The more poison Stiles’ body gets out, the longer intermittents of throwing up, and then Stiles can get on the couch instead of the bathroom floor.
But he’s not quite that mean.
He dabs the cool cloth along Stiles’ skin, applying pressure on the back of his neck, to squeeze some of the cold water out and let it run down his back. It’s a nice distraction. Derek remembers this too.
Stiles sighs out, resting his forehead down.
He’s losing energy. Brain function. Derek roams over his form, sensing the weakening of his consciousness. Even though he knows it’s just the poison running its course, it’s discomforting to feel the drop.
It’s quiet while Stiles rests his eyes.
Derek stands up and re-wets the washcloth to bring the temperature back down before returning.
“You can really go now,” Stiles mumbles. He sounds out of it, half-asleep. “I’ll be back on my feet in no time. One week. Two months max. God I never want to leave my bed. But I will. At some point. To do… the thing... the thing we’re supposed to be doing.”
“The thing,” Derek repeats, vaguely amused at Stiles’ thinking attempts.
Stiles turns his head to ‘resting’ position to look at Derek. He cracks open an eye.
To give him credit, even one-eyed, it conveys an overwhelming amount of stubbornness.
“That’s why you’re in here, isn’t it?” Stiles manages to swing out a half-dead arm and flimsily lob Derek on the shin. “You’re a sadist. Laughing at my pain. Don’t think I didn’t know what you were thinking when I said not to say… the F word.”
To be fair, Derek had wanted to say the F word.
“Admit it.”
Innocent until proven guilty.
“Or,” Derek alternatively presents. “You can move to your bed. You haven’t thrown up in over ten minutes.”
Stiles blinks in confusion.
“I mean, it’s a nice thought,” Stiles says. “But I’m gonna throw up again at some point and I’d rather die a million deaths than move anywhere right now.”
Derek huffs.
“You can use the trash can.”
Stiles makes a face. “Ew. Gross. That’ll make the whole room smell.”
It’s not until then that Derek understands Stiles’ reluctance. Stiles is obviously right that werewolves are sensitive to smell, and that had always meant when his human family members were sick in the Hale house, they were actively taken care of. Every time someone threw up, the designated throw up bowl was emptied for them. But Stiles—
Derek knows Stiles has taken care of himself, for the most part, for most of his life. That Stiles would drop everything to nurse his dad back to health and meanwhile refute any help when the reverse was true. That when there is no one to take care of you, staying in the bathroom is easier than having to continuously stand up to go back to said bathroom over and over; that it doesn’t even occur to Stiles that he can just stay in bed because Derek would take care of the rest.
Maybe if it got bad enough, he'd take up a hospital bed with a barf bag to vomit in and Melissa's calming voice that Stiles likely made his last resort. Derek always scented his dull, persistent ache around her.
Otherwise, no one to take care of the vomit, and wet washcloths, and ice, and smashing the ice into ice chips to suck on as you work your way back up to eating solid food, or the foot rub when the person needed some real relief, or just the brief company while intermittently awake.
Derek hasn’t been around that since he was a kid. But he does remember it. A little too vividly. Sometimes, it's just strange with Stiles, who has family alive and who lives with him, that Derek still has more experience of being taken care of.
“Just listen to me,” Derek demands. “Your brain is warped from the poison.”
Gallant offense takes over Stiles’ face, except it’s absolutely exhausted and doesn’t come across in the way Stiles probably means for it too.
“Y’know, people think I’m the dramatic one between us,” Stiles mutters. “Got no idea.”
Derek pulls him to his feet. Stiles wretches a horrible sound and stumbles his way toward his bed at Derek’s guidance. He’s seeing in blurs if his unbalanced footsteps are anything to go by and he collapses onto the mattress. Derek hears him take a few deep breaths to regain his lost composure, while Derek retrieves the small trash can tucked beneath Stiles desk.
He takes out the lining. It’ll be easier to wash out the plastic.
And sets it on the floor next to Stiles’ bed.
“Bed is so much better,” Stiles groans, rubbing his cheek against his pillow. “This is the best fucking bed to ever exist.”
“You do know I've been sick before,” Derek says, returning from the bathroom with a re-soaked washcloth. Sure, not the human kind of sick. But poisoned. Throwing up black goo. Stiles peeks an eye open. He still hasn’t learned his lesson on watching Derek while having vertigo. “I know what helps.”
“I’ve never seen you sick,” Stiles says. He sounds displeased about this. When Derek doesn’t immediately answer, Stiles draws his own conclusions, and he’s evidently feeling a bit better now that he’s officially horizontal, as he lazily waves a hand around with his eyes closed. “...you’re probably like a cat. Like, how no one can tell they’re feeling bad ‘cause they just hide it in front of people and then they curl up in corners and dark spaces by themselves to suffer alone.”
Stiles’ Cat Fact makes Derek’s lip twitch.
“Yes. I curl up in closets. How did you know.”
“Cause m'genius.” Stiles is back to mumbling again, losing awareness.
Derek presses the back of his hand against Stiles’ forehead.
“I’m fine,” Stiles complains, trying to knock away Derek’s hand but misses due to—once again—his vertigo and a classic case of Idiot Behavior. “Just gotta sleep it off.”
Derek ignores him and rests the cold wash down on his forehead. He flicks him in the cheek.
“Tell me when it’s not cold anymore.”
Stiles is already drifting though. He hums, reaching up to grab the cloth and hold it against his forehead like he’s trying to focus his entire being onto that one spot of relief. He probably is. He must find it too, as sleep takes him quickly—
Derek pads across the room toward the door.
—or not.
“Derek?” Stiles mumbles in concern, brows creased and barely able to open his eyes.
“Just grabbing more blankets, baby. I'll be right back,” Derek assures him.
“... better be.” He hears the threat in that grumble. Some people forget how scrappy Stiles actually is, but Derek doesn't.
Acquainted with the Stilinski house, Derek locates each item with ease: A glass of water, a couple of saltines for later, the fuzzy-soft couch blanket made of faux fur the pack gifted Stiles, and his father's old microwavable sock. Stiles calls it a “rice sock” and claims Derek grew up too rich to have heard of its “pebble-and-tin existence” before.
It's an old sock, filled with rice, and tied off at the top. To heat up in the microwave.
While he waits the two minutes for Noah’s sock to cook, he collects the hidden pack clothes around the house. It’s all shirts or sweatshirts, stuffed in places where everyone thinks Stiles won’t look—behind the washer, above the kitchen cabinets, Scott keeps his in plain sight—as the only one where it won’t be conspicuous—on the actual coat hooks. Derek collects, grabs the rice sock, and heads back upstairs.
Stiles is still only partially unconscious, mouth agape and body contorted toward the trash can, but gone far enough that he doesn’t so much as crack an eye open when Derek sets everything down on his nightstand and scatters the pack’s clothes onto the bed. He drapes the blanket over Stiles, who even out of it, clings to the orange-brown fur like it's his own and shivers into it. Derek stuffs the hot rice sock beneath it and Stiles grabs at that too, pulling the warmth against his chest for comfort.
Derek picks up a copy of The Song of Achilles since Stiles has it dog-eared and notated and bookmarked, often spending time on mythology. He’s careful not to aggravate the sleeping lump beside him as he sets up camp on the other side of Stiles’ bed.
Thirty minutes later, Stiles is springing awake, headfirst into the trash can.
Derek sets the book down. Takes care of it.
By the time he comes back into the room, Stiles is strewn about and comatose.
...makes sense why he wanted to stay on the bathroom floor. He practically passes out right after throwing up, though frankly, he’s never had a strong stomach.
The second time Stiles gasps awake and dives for the trash can, it becomes routine.
He stops entirely on the fifth, and when he falls asleep shortly after, he stays asleep for the next couple of hours. Derek is content to read meanwhile, switching on Stiles’ little reading light attached to his headboard when the sun begins to set and the room darkens.
“You stayed.”
Derek looks over from Stiles’ chicken scratch in the margins of the book screaming at Achilles, seeing the slit of a barley-open eye, squinting up at Derek as though genuinely trying to figure out if he’s an illusion. It’s not that dark in Stiles’ room yet.
“Feeling better?” He asks.
Stiles manages to open both eyes, though avoids eye contact as he looks inward to feel out that answer. Derek is patient. He can scent the discomfort in Stiles’ scent as he registers that Derek has stayed with him this whole time.
“How come I can barely move? What is all this shit?” He finally whines, wiggling around. He empathetically pushes the pack’s clothes off him and shimmies the fur blanket down to his hips. “Oh my god, I’m so uncomfortable. I’m suffocating. I slept in my jeans?” He sounds particularly frustrated about that as his hands fly down to undo the button, violently beginning to kick them off.
“Jesus, Stiles. Relax,” Derek orders, to no avail as Stiles flails and scrambles to rip his clothing from his body like they’d been sewn into his skin while asleep.
Still, Derek gets up and retrieves a pair of Stiles’ pajama pants and a fresh t-shirt, about to grab one of his bigger sweatshirts too, when Stiles interrupts—"Um. Derek?”
Derek glances over at him.
“Yours?” Stiles asks timidly, pointedly looking at Derek’s sweatshirt on his body. “Please.”
“Why’re you being so shy?” Derek teases, tossing it over to him with the rest of the fresh clothes. “You wear my clothes all the time.”
Stiles pouts a little and pleads the fifth as he redresses himself clumsily without actually standing up and throws himself onto his back with a loud sigh, pulling Derek’s drawstrings to close the hoodie around his face.
Derek rolls his eyes, sitting at the edge of Stiles’ bed. “Stiles.”
“That’ll be all. Thanks for... thanks,” Stiles says awkwardly and sleepily. “M’good. Must’ve gotten all the poison out, now all that’s left is rest. And you—You’ve done enough. And everything. Buried me in clothes I’ve never seen before and my treasured items like an Egyptian pharaoh, what more could I really ask for?”
“Is there something you want to ask for?” Derek presses the relevant question in that avoidance ramble.
He grabs Stiles’ foot and gives it a squeeze, pulling it into his lap and massaging it. Stiles immediately relaxes and lets out another sigh.
“Derek,” he refutes without pulling his foot away.
“Stiles.”
“Derek.” Stiles pulls the hood away from his face, crossing his arms to stare Derek down. Derek is pretty sure he learned that from him. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” Derek says like they’re back in grade school and calling Stiles Captain Obvious.
“You didn’t have to stay,” Stiles says more cautiously, quick to drop Derek’s stance as his arms uncross and his fingers twist and twiddle nervously with the drawstrings.
“I like taking care of you,” Derek says back simply. “Drink some water.”
Uncomfortable is an understatement for how Stiles looks at him. Though, he does briefly glance at the water on his nightstand. “How much do you like it?” Stiles sniffs the water suspiciously. Deflectively. “Enough to munchausen me?”
“Shut up and drink it.”
Derek rubs his feet, letting Stiles settle back in to the world of the lucid. He drinks some slow, easy sips, and eats two saltines, which Derek is proud of, giving his foot an approving squeeze. Stiles offers him a little hint of a smile, before remembering his discomfort again and turns to watching Derek intently. He’s thinking. Gears are turning. Derek can tell; meanwhile, Derek keeps his focus on his thumbs working slow and steady along the arch—aware of how Stiles’ toes curl, how his breath evens out, how there’s something grounding about being able to give comfort in such a simple, physical way. Derek adjusts his pressure instinctively, guided by the quiet hum of satisfaction rolling off in Stiles’ scent. It does something warm and protective to Derek’s wolf. It does something to Stiles too, opening him up.
“You didn't have to stay,” Stiles blurts out, as though unable to keep these cards close to his chest any longer. “If I called my dad, he’d come home.”
Derek blinks, surprised at what initially sounds like a random addendum, but it’s Stiles, and Stiles isn’t actually ever random, he's just got a hundred different threads lit up inside his brain at once. So, Derek considers.
“You wouldn’t call him,” he decides on.
“But that’d be my choice,” Stiles says, almost aggressively. “Not his.”
It’s not, really. Derek can hear it in Stiles’ voice: How it’s just what a child tells themself in protection against the fact their parent wouldn’t come for them. Would fail to take care of them in the way they needed most. And that pain is too big, too great, to manage, and so, they make it their own choice instead.
“Stiles,” he says, lowering his voice to be respectful but also respectful in that he doesn’t hedge around it. “Your dad was an alcoholic when you were growing up—”
Stiles yanks his foot away, glaring. Derek lets go. The sharpness in Stiles’ gaze is less heat and more uncertainty though.
“That was only for a short time,” he says defensively. “Right after my mom died.”
It hadn’t been a short time. Derek knows that because it still continues to this day, to varying degrees. But Stiles is an adult now, it’s different, he doesn’t solely rely on his father to survive; which is what allows his relationship with his father to be different now too. Derek likes Noah, considers him extended pack in the same way he does Melissa, but he’s witnessed how the Sheriff prioritizes his job over his son. Not intentionally or consciously.
Most of all, Derek’s witnessed what Stiles’ upbringing must have been like through the way Stiles acts. The way he thinks. How he takes care of everyone before himself, how deflective and defensive he is about sharing anything personal while maintaining the illusion that he’s an open book to others. They’re survival skills, to keep everything that could be perceived as a burden hidden away while making everyone else only see what you want them to.
Derek defuses. Because Stiles' defense is a sharp, prickly thing when threatened and progress won’t be made unless Derek can soften the thorns first.
“And people say I’m the closed off one,” Derek pretends to lament, clearly being playful and teasing Stiles by using his own words from earlier against him, though privately meaning it, just a little.
Stiles kicks him. More of a nudge than a kick, those baby browns softening from that biting sharpness.
“Hey,” he whines accusingly, “mine was a joke. Yours is just mean.”
Derek snatches his foot back and holds it in his lap, the reset settling Stiles more than before.
“Your dad loves you,” Derek tries again. “It’s always in his scent.”
Stiles narrows his eyes but not to glare. Just to think and express his discomfort again, but his shoulders relax as if trying to give himself over to Derek. Derek is very familiar with Stiles’ body doing this, even unconsciously, it’s just generally while they’re having sex.
“And your relationship with him is different now than it was growing up. Right?”
Stiles squints at the wording, but he’s considering. “Yeah,” he gives after a moment. “But it wasn’t bad back then. It was just...”
“It’s okay if it was bad.”
Stiles’ mouth pulls tight, his eyes flicker around the room in search of anything else to focus on. He shrugs, tension returning. “It wasn’t... bad. I mean, Isaac’s father was bad, okay? And I—I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, and I’m not—in denial or something. I’m not saying my dad didn’t struggle after my mom died. He did. But he was doin’ his best and kept a roof over our heads, and he brought home burgers and curly fries almost every night—and I had Scott.”
Derek huffs, though a faint curve tugs at his lips. “You have Scott. Inseparable pain in my ass.”
Stiles smiles back, relieved at the change of subject. “You act like we’re conjoined twins.”
Unfortunately a subject Derek doesn’t let him change. Just long enough for a reprieve. “It makes you uncomfortable to be taken care of,” he says instead, softly as to not rattle him.
Stiles’ tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, finally smoothing out into something more accepting of the reality Derek presented before him. “I can’t believe the audacity you have to say that with the amount of aftercare you put me through,” he eventually mutters, but his eyes flicker back to Derek in acknowledgement that he isn’t refuting his point this time.
Derek can see the vulnerability behind it, the uncertainty of whether he can show Derek that a piece of himself already knew the truth.
It’s a start.
More than enough for now, as Derek crawls up and over him, placing a soothing kiss against his throat. It’s easier than talking anyway.
Stiles strains his head away. “My breath, Derek. I need to keep some dignity, please.”
“If this were about smell, you’d already be dead,” Derek says bluntly; Stiles looks up at him, unimpressed. “Vomit frequency means danger that could spread through the pack.”
“Thank you for that. Very reassuring.”
Derek continues to stare down at him, searching his face.
“What?” Stiles grumbles like he knows what’s coming.
“Ask me what you wanted to earlier.”
Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s neck like a lifeline and closes his eyes. “Do I have to?” He questions. “What if we roleplay that you’re a bad boyfriend who doesn’t care about the fact that I suck at... certain things. Like letting people take care of me. For example. Hypothetically, in this scenario."
“You can do it,” Derek encourages without missing a beat, though his tone comes off more commanding than he means for it to.
Stiles breathes in deeply, and exhales.
“I was just thinking... this is all your fault,” he starts off, because it’s Stiles, and Derek has learned to have patience when he can’t dive right into his real, raw emotions. That Stiles has to be allowed his sarcasm and run-arounds first, which works fine for Derek, who never loses track of the original point. “You exhausted me with your freakish werewolf stamina and I needed to refuel, hence why we ended up at the poisonous restaurant in the first place.”
“You picked the restaurant.”
“Wolves eat fish, Derek. It’s a healthy part of their diet.”
“Sure, Stiles. It’s my fault you got sick.”
“Exactly. So it would be kinda rude for you to just... poison a guy and leave. Especially when that guy is your boyfriend. Plus, when you got poisoned, I drove you around all day to protect you, and I was gonna cut off your arm for you, and that was before we were even pack.”
“Baby. You know my answer already. Just ask.”
Stiles dares to open his eyes like he isn't sure at all about Derek's answer, and he’s only met back with Derek’s steady patience.
“Okay. Well. Seeing that you’ve been emptying my puke bucket, and keeping me hydrated so I didn’t have to go to Melissa for an IV...” Derek frowns—clearly that’s spoken from experience—“and brought me random clothes, which I’m hoping half of Beacon Hills isn't running around naked right now—”
“The pack hides their scented clothes around your place to ward off threats.”
“Right. Of course they do. And you piled them onto me like Giles Corey because?”
“Comfort.” Derek tugs at Erica’s shirt that Stiles has taken to cradling under his head with. He knows Stiles is human but he can still pick up an individual's scent. More importantly, “Who’s Giles Corey?”
“You know. ‘More weight,’” Stiles imitates in a voice that sounds like a heavy chainsmoker and Derek doesn’t remotely understand, except that he’s pretty sure Stiles is mimicking some guy being on top of him. “He’s not real, Derek. Or, he was real. He’s dead now. For the last three hundred years. Crushed beneath rocks during the Salem witch trials."
“Fuck Giles Corey.”
“Oh my god.”
“Ask me.”
Stiles relents. “Will you... stay? Longer.” He rubs his eye as though any movement at all can distract him from the words coming out of his mouth. “If you have time. And you want to. Because I’m probably just gonna lay here and watch a show on my laptop till I go back to sleep, and there’s no actual reason for you to—”
“Yes. I want to stay.” Derek falls over onto his side and pulls Stiles up onto his chest to cuddle. Stiles wraps his arms around him and breathes out a heavy exhale that’s just a little shaky. Derek noses against his soft head of hair, even if it is oily with fever sweat. It needs to be said. “I’d drop everything to take care of you.”
Stiles doesn't say anything for a moment. Then, he reaches out to press his hand over Derek's heart, against his chest, where it thrums beneath his fingers. The skin-to-skin contact is soothing, nice.
“I’d do the same,” Stiles murmurs into the crook of his throat. “For you.”
Derek breathes him in. One hand lays over the nape of Stiles’ neck, instinctively protecting its exposure, the other slipping down to rub over his back for as much as he can reach of it.
“Oh, really? The guy—who drove me around all day and was going to cut off my arm before we were even pack—would drop everything?”
Stiles’ head snaps up at the mockery, but beneath it, plain as day to Derek, is a bright relief. “That’s it. You’re going to regret this, Hale. Mark my words. I demand you doordash me some ginger ale and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and I don’t care if you’re not supposed to eat chocolate when you’re sick, that’s just an old wives tale someone made up to deprive me, personally, of good things,” Stiles says petulantly. Derek huffs out a breath of amusement. “And we’re watching Twilight!”
“It’s fucking not,” Stiles scoffs. “First of all, he is a fag and that’s not an insult to him either. Jackson would agree. And second of all, I’ve sucked enough dick to earn the right to say fag. If the assholes I went to school would reasonably call me it, I’m allowed to reclaim it. And third of all—”
Stiles cuts himself off when he realizes Derek looks like he just swallowed a lemon. Normally Derek’s faces range from bored to gently amused to quietly homicidal, and this is…different.
“Shit,” Stiles sighs, “you’re gonna be weird about this. That’s kind of hypocritical for someone calling me out on homophobia—”
“I’m not,” Derek huffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m not homophobic. We just don’t talk about—sex.”
It’s true, they don’t. They talk about monsters and magic and weird wolf stuff; sometimes, in their more normal moments (although that depends on how one defines “normal”) they talk about movies and cars and the general cultural development of Beacon Hills. But the closest they’ve come to talking about sex is Derek being weird about that time Stiles found women’s panties in his laundry.
“Sorry,” Stiles mutters at the book in front of him. (He’s at Derek’s new place, a townhouse that doesn’t have any holes in the walls, with central air and a real kitchen, and a bedroom instead of a big bed in the fucking middle of the living room. They’re meant to be looking through their combined collections of occult sources for information about a weird weather pattern Stiles is sure he’s noticed, but they’ve been chatting over Cherry Cokes and a big bag of Cheetos while pretending to read.) “Although I’m not that sorry—so what, dude? You think I spent all that time away at school not getting laid?”
“I didn’t say that,” Derek says with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “I’m sure you—” He winces gently; Stiles is pretty sure his skin is turning red. “Let’s stop talking.”
“So it is the gay thing,” Stiles says, mostly to himself. “Well—the bi thing. You know, straight guys think fellatio is a submissive act, but—”
Derek closes the book in front of him pointedly, two halves slamming together. “I’m not straight. I thought you were.”
Stiles blinks. “What?”
“I’m not straight, and I’ve sucked more dick than you have and I still think you shouldn’t call Jackson a—you know.”
Stiles’ whole brain is flooded with the hypothetical image of Derek Hale on his knees for some guy even bigger and beefier than he is. Or—maybe a different type of guy.
“Stiles.”
“How could you possibly assume I was straight?!” Stiles knows that’s probably not the chief issue at the moment, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. “I fucking—you knew that I—are you a fucking idiot or just incredibly unobservant?”
Derek sighs, arms crossing over his chest as he leans back in his chair. “I should’ve known because you walked around as a teenager smelling like arousal? That’s how most teenagers smell ninety percent of the time.”
“The ogling!” Stiles all but shouts. “That time in my room with Danny—that was so fucking obvious!”
Derek’s face turns inquisitive, head tilting like he’s trying to recall. “The only people I remember you ogling were women. Girls. Lydia.”
“Holy shit,” Stiles exhales. “That’s crazy, dude. I’m, like, super bi. Horny for all genders. Interested in hotties of all identities.”
“I got it.”
“I thought you were straight.”
One of Derek’s perfect eyebrows arches up. “I wax my chest, Stiles.”
“Straight guys wax!”
“Not any that I know.”
“You’ve only—I’ve only ever heard about you with women.”
“You should be more observant,” Derek says.
“I should be more observant? Me? I was making fuck me eyes at you for two years and you had no idea.”
Derek scoffs. “That look was intentional? I thought you were just naturally twink-ish.”
A stab of embarrassment shudders through him. So Derek did know, at least partly, even if he didn’t understand the meaning. Bastard. “God, I’m glad you’re not so fucking depressed anymore but I liked you better before your ego tripled in size.”
Derek smirks at him. “That was a lie. The second part.”
“Fuck you,” Stiles says without any real heat. He’s defensive, internally cringing at the raw feeling that accompanies dredging up his teenage crush. “So fine, neither of us are straight. Good talk.” His shame sends him to his feet, legs knocking the dining chair out of the way with a too-loud knock against the hardwood floor. “I’ll take these and—”
“If I’d known,” Derek says, interrupting his spiral, “I would’ve said something earlier.”
Stiles hesitates, fingers poised to scoop a pile of books into his arms. “What? About being bi? Yeah, dude, no worries. We can form a queer caucus in the pack—although that’s most of us, to be fair.”
“I would’ve said something about being interested in you.”
For a second, Stiles is pretty sure he heard that wrong. Or—he’s asleep. Dreaming. He’s in bed right now and his hindbrain has resorted to evil trickery because the normal nightmares just aren’t enough; his subconscious has to taunt him with Derek-shaped fantasies too. But he counts ten fingers and he can feel the pain of holding his breath, which means—he’s awake. Jesus.
“I really didn’t know,” Derek says. “It’s not like we really talk about our private lives with each other. We only spend time together for pack stuff.”
“But if you’d known,” Stiles mutters.
“I’d have said something.”
“Something like—what?”
A gentle smile curls at the corner of Derek’s mouth. He’s amused, which is better than the alternative. “Stiles, would you like to stay for dinner?”
Oh, man. Stiles has a lot of ideas about how that dinner would go. Especially the end of it. (Derek Hale sucks dick, his brain helpfully reminds him.) “Fine,” he agrees. “But only if you’re buying. Even your unobservant ass can’t have missed that I’m queer and broke.”
“I can cook. And I have ice cream for dessert.”
Stiles’ cheeks tingle as blood rushes to his face. The look Derek’s wearing isn’t just amused; it’s kind of—hungry. “You’re thinking about me sucking your dick, right? That’s why you got weird—because it turned you on when I said that I suck dick.”
“Stiles.”
“Yeah.”
“Sit down if you’re staying.”
He doesn’t really have to think about it. It takes two seconds for Stiles to drop firmly back into his chair, pulse thudding in his ears. Yeah, he’s definitely staying.
When Stiles and Derek finally get together, it’s not like they immediately start being nice to each other. Now, the sexual tension between them might be resolved – is actively being resolved. A lot. To both the relief and horror of the whole pack. However, there’s that other aspect of what people might call a normal relationship that goes unresolved for a while – the aspect of PDA and of actually, you know, liking each other, personality-wise. Of course, Stiles knows that he likes Derek. He likes him a lot. Especially naked and panting underneath him, with his fingers curled in Stiles’ hair and his tongue in his mouth. But it’s Derek. They’ve been driving each other crazy for six years. No one riles him up quite like Derek does, the smug, beautiful bastard. “The feeling’s mutual,” Derek assures him dryly, whenever Stiles reminds him.
They’re still being so much themselves that when the pack is gathered at Scott’s house one afternoon, Liam pulls Scott aside. “What’s wrong with them? I thought they were…together now? Why does it still sound like they’re gonna get violent?” Scott just sighs. “That’s just how they are, dude. They’re both kind of assholes.”
Derek’s not being nice, per se, at least not in the typical boyfriend-way. He still scowls and tells Stiles to shut up, and he makes it perfectly clear when he thinks Stiles is being moronic. But there’s no malice there, and Stiles won’t claim to be particularly nice to Derek either. They’re still the same sarcastic pair of douchebags they were just a few weeks ago, except now Stiles knows what makes Derek groan in indignation and in pleasure. They’re both important to him, okay?
Deep down, Stiles knows he loves Derek. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Derek by his side (seriously, he should get a medal for all his heroism the past six years). But they haven’t quite reached that level of endearment with each other yet. So when Stiles’ heart clenches painfully in his chest, he can only laugh helplessly and breathe out a “Fuck you, dude”. Derek will kiss him then, a fond smile playing on his lips that feels so good against his own. “Fuck you, too”.
Do you know what I would love to read? A confident Derek and Cunning Lydia, both trying to win over Stiles, and that oblivious idiot not being aware of anything, and the pack enjoying the whole drama with popcorn. And I want Derek to bring his A game to this. The whole courting, charming, flirty self...
Because my boy deserves to be wooed and fought over because he is a catch. He deserves all the appreciation in the world.
And when I am saying fought over, I want it to be an epic battle.
Love when Sterek is dating but somehow Stiles doesn't understand that. Smartest guy with the lowest sense of self esteem meets immovable object with infinite patience and a convenient excuse for PDA.
Stiles: Yeah we've hooked up, so what. It's 2026 can't a few friends hook up.
Scott: You're holding hands right now, you're really telling me you aren't dating?
Stiles: Derek's hand is cold and he needs to scent all of us. I'm not a heartless monster, Scott.
Brb thinking about elderly stiles whose memory starts going and sometimes ends up wandering the preserve looking for things he can’t remember but every time a big black wolf (who’s going a bit grey himself) with red eyes walks with him to stop him from wandering too deep but letting him wander all the same and sometimes stiles doesn’t recognise his husband anymore but he always recognises the wolf
I really like the idea of Peter opening some kind of money laundering business (coffeeshop for example) and hiring Stiles to work part-time while he's studying at school/college to earn some money. It doesn't prevent Stiles from studying at all because he can do his homework right at work. And if any customers bother him, he can kick them out (because again, this isn't a real business).
Plus points if there are real employees there who also get paid for serving two or three customers a day
and they watch as Stiles pours coffee in the face of a mean customer, look at each other and just shrug, knowing that nothings gonna happen because he is the owner's sugar baby in law
sometimes, derek really wonders what gerard argent might’ve been like if he hadn't been a sadistic hunter all his life. a small-town thespian, maybe. or a civil war reenactor, or the skull in a shakespeare play. maybe all of this could’ve been avoided with a little more local arts funding.
at least, that’s probably what stiles would say if he were here right now.
it's strange what you can end up thinking about in an inescapable situation. what you start dreaming about getting back to. what'd be the biggest relief.
the doorway into his apartment. a hot shower. clean sheets.
but at this point? those are all afterthoughts.
next to the missing scent of outrage and adrenaline. some predictable smart-mouthed comment, and the smug look slipping from argent’s face.
derek can’t imagine a better feeling.
it’s not gonna happen. but that doesn't mean he can't theorize about it.
exactly how stiles would put a stop to this, everything he’d say.
what a fucking psychopath, oh my god. whoa, hey! i’ve got you, stay with me.
i’ve got you, but i’m gonna need you for the big escape scene, okay? because dead weight is… very heavy. next to that, barely conscious weight is a breeze.
has he been monologuing to you again? yeah? i figured. your jaw is still twitching. have you been doing those exercises i sent you? you’re gonna get, like, werewolf TMJ. werewolf teeth-grinding. or like, fang... are the werewolf ones called fangs? that doesn’t sound right.
it settles derek even thinking about it. just knowing the look on his face. how stiles’ arm would feel slipping around him, helping him down, how he’d scrub at derek’s shoulder, trying to soothe it ineffectually.
but it’d help, somehow. just the fact that he’s here, and close, and trying.
he’d help derek into the jeep, and let derek pretend he doesn’t need the extra handling. no, no, of course not. you? you’re way too much of a tough guy.
and he’d take derek back to his apartment, but he wouldn’t leave.
yeah, nice try. i’m not losing you again that easy.
Finally, he can’t take it any more. Can’t handle Derek leaning close all the time, looking like that. His dark hair looks surprisingly soft up close, his lips are pink and there’s a tiny bit of blood from where he’s bitten one trying to keep his cool. Stiles can see the indents in his skin, feel the warmth of his body radiate out, and he can’t fucking take it anymore. Derek has his T shirt fisted in his hands as he holds stiles flush against the wall, face impossibly close, and stiles loses it— leans forwards and licks a thick stripe up dereks cheek. His facial hair prickly against his tongue and his skin tastes faintly salty, he smells like alpha.
Stiles needing something physically grounding to feel after everything calms down from the Nogitsune.
Counting fingers help and Derek will hold his hand out for him when they’re out and about. Driving in the car, grocery shopping… he can feel Stiles suddenly stiffen at his side. Can hear the small, confused intake of breath. The shudder of the lithe body next to him and he already knows what the human is thinking. “Is this real?”
It’s such an easy thing to give Stiles. The reassurance of holding his hand and letting him fidget with his fingers when he counts… It helps. Of course it helps but sometimes, it’s not enough. When they’re alone, when Stiles wakes screaming from a nightmare, when Derek is buried inside of him, sometimes Stiles will go still. His eyes widening slightly, the pleasured moans turning into a confused whine. “Is this real? Are you real?”
And that’s when Stiles begs for the pain. For Derek to dip his claws into the curve of his hip. To use his fangs to break through the skin along his neck. When the need to have the beta bruise him back into reality is so strong he nearly cries for it.
The first time he asked, Derek refused. Not wanting to hurt Stiles and he had tried to prove to him he was awake. Real. But the counting hadn’t helped and the words hadn’t been enough and Stiles had shrunk in on himself as he screamed and screamed and screamed that this was a dream. It was all a dream. Derek didn’t love him like this. Derek would never give him the time of day. Why couldn’t he wake up?
And Derek’s heart had nearly shattered. Hearing the broken sobs filling the room. Of seeing Stiles fall deeper and deeper into his panic attack. Smelled the sadness and fear and anguish blanket around them. Until he finally did surge forward, grasping Stiles arms and digging his claws into his bicep.
It had been like a switch. Stiles immediately sucking in a pained lungful of air. His eyes opening in disbelief as he stared up at Derek. “Y-You’re he-here… it’s really you?” And Derek had nodded, not prepared for the overwhelming wave of relief to fill the space between them but Stiles cried when he threw his arms around the beta’s neck and though he was bleeding he had never smelled so grateful.
It’s all that’s needed. Derek doesn’t even blink when Stiles asks him for the pain now. Doesn’t even have to wait for the words. He can tell when Stiles needs grounding and the human trusts him. Trusts him to know when to stop. Trusts him to bring him back to the present with a clawed hand or fangs around his throat. No hesitation, no fear just absolute faith and relief when he feels the teeth against his jugular and he moans when they dip gently into his flesh.
My headcannon on Stiles visiting the Hale house if Hales were alive and Stiles knew about werewolves and Derek was still autistic but less traumatised:
Stiles, after greeting Dereks mom and some siblings, enters the living room and sees a giant Great Dane laying on the couch: OMG! You’ve got a dog! Derek why didn’t you tell me? I love dogs!
Stiles, in the goofiest voice possible: who is the good boy? Who is the gooddest boy? Who is so soft and cute just sitting here, huh? It’s you! You are the gooddest boy! Who is so soft and nice and cuddly? Who wants some butt scratching? Huh? You?
Dog, jumps into Stiles’ lap and offers his belly for scratches: 👁️👅👁️
Derek with straight ass face: Stiles…
Stiles: huh?
Derek: Do you remember when I told you that not all shapeshifters turn into wolves? Some of us shapeshift into other animals?
Stiles: Yeah…
Derek: That’s my dad.
Stiles: ლ(ಠ_ಠ ლ)
Derek: He’s feral rn and forgot that he’s half human
Stiles, looking at Talia, then at his own hand on the dog’s butt:
Stiles: Σ(°ロ°)!!!
Hale family, watching him go pale:
Derek: *eyebrows*
Stiles: I’m so sorry! I didn’t know! I didn’t mean to!
Minutes: pass as Stiles’ heartbeat starts to sound like he’s about to have a heart attack
Talia who finally took pity on him: Derek’s joking, it’s just a dog
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
origamiaround
2087
areudirty
