Like, really bad. Like, certain death, bad. It was the sort of bad that clouded over everything - a solid, tangible thing, and damn near impossible to see past. It was the finality of death lurking so near that had them all acting so unlike themselves.
They had sensed it before the first attack. Months before the first person was killed, Lydia had spent an entire night screaming, being held down by Scott, and sedated by Deaton, and shielded by Parrish. Parrish lasted for an hour or two before passing out from the pain, his ears and nose bleeding as he hit the floor, which Deaton had seemed mildly concerned about before he stuck a fucking horse needle in Lydia’s arm and gave her some pills. Stiles lost count of how much medication Deaton had put her on about halfway through the night.
“For the pain.” Deaton had said when he had given her yet another injection, and his gaze fell on Scott. And when Scott’s veins blackened too quickly and he was left unable to breathe for a minute, Liam stepped up. And then Derek. And then just about everyone else who thought they had a hope in hell of taking her pain away and making it bearable for her.
She told Stiles the next day that it hadn’t even made a difference. She hadn't even noticed they were taking her pain, because it was just that excruciating. She didn’t speak about what she saw, but, less than a week later, Stiles walked in on her scrubbing her hands so hard they started bleeding.
“There’s so much blood, Stiles.” She had whispered, even when her hands were cleaned and dry and Stiles’ arms were wrapped around her. “I can't get it off. It won’t come off.”
“It’s all off, Lyds.” He said softly, pulling away from the hug and showing her her hands. “See? There’s no more blood. All clean.”
She shook her head, her eyes wide and glassy. Her voice was a whisper when she spoke. “You don’t get it. It’s still there, Stiles. I can still see it.” She let out a shaky breath. “I can always see it.”
“See what?”
She held up her shaky hands, tears rolling down her face. “My hands are covered in blood.”
In the months that followed, everyone started acting more impulsively. They had already been through something like this before with the beast. They were too familiar with having too much at stake. The whole town could feel it.
A lot changed in those four months. Scott and Malia broke up on a whim. Lydia and Parrish got engaged. Peter, of all people, was settling down with some beta from a nearby pack.
And, of course, Stiles and Derek decided it was time they started including more benefits in their friendship.
It had happened after a fight. It was the first time they had fought the coven up close, and it was painfully obvious that they were out of their depth.
Derek was taking quite some time to heal afterwards, and Stiles was trying to avoid his dad's lectures about Stiles and his pack being out past the town curfew (which seemed irrelevant when facing down the most powerful coven in the world but, eh, parents), so he was stalling by staying at Derek’s for as long as possible.
“Shouldn’t you be healing by now?” Stiles asked, his chin hanging off the back of the sofa as he watched Derek lift up his shirt and inspect the gash on his stomach.
“Shouldn’t you be leaving by now?” Derek said, dropping his shirt with a glare to cover up the wound.
“I’m serious, Derek. We don’t know anything about these people. Can witch magic kill werewolves?”
Derek sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “I don’t know, Stiles.”
By this point, as the resident human, Stiles had picked up some supernatural survival skills. Argent had showed him how to use a gun last year, and Derek had been teaching him how to fight for at least six months by now. Stiles had also done extensive research on natural magical healing remedies, so he was something of an expert in the field.
And Derek was not looking good.
“Can I take a look at it?” Stiles asked, curiosity leaking into the edges of his words.
Derek frowned. “What about my personality makes you think I’d say yes to that?”
Except, Derek did say yes, eventually. In the middle of the night, he stumbled over to where Stiles was crashing on his couch, and he shook him awake, despite having insisted that he was fine just a few hours earlier.
“St... Stiles.” Derek’s voice was raspy, and Stiles shot up instantly at the sound of it.
“What’s up? Are you okay?” Stiles said, and his voice was only slightly slurred from sleep.
“I started...” Derek looked down at his shirt, where his hand was pressed to his stomach, blood staining his hand and shirt red. “I started bleeding again.”
“Shit. Okay, okay.” Stiles sat Derek down on the sofa and turned on all of the lights, which he regretted doing almost instantly. Derek was looking paler than he’d ever seen him, sweat sticking his hair up in odd ways, and there was much more blood than he was expecting. “Okay. It’s gonna be fine. This needs to be off, okay?” He said, lifting up the bottom of the t-shirt Derek had been sleeping in.
Derek lifted up his arms to let Stiles pull it off of him, and Stiles ignored how intimate it felt. He knelt down beside Derek, inspecting the area for a few moments, before frowning.
“It’s...” He trailed off, leaning in closer to get a better look.
Stiles must have been silent for a moment too long, because Derek let out a soft growl. “What is it?”
Stiles shook his head. “It should be getting better.” He murmured to himself, before calling Deaton and telling him to get to the loft A-fucking-SAP.
Deaton responded by asking why Derek hadn’t come to him about this hours ago, because didn’t you know that werewolves don’t heal from a coven’s magic if it’s strong enough? And didn’t you know that if the magic runs deep enough in the wound, you can die within the hour? Stiles asked him how he could have possibly known that, and Deaton had ignored him and told him that he was lucky there was a simple solution - to sew Derek up. And it just so happened that Deaton was out of town this weekend, which was the biggest inconvenience Stiles had experienced in a while.
“Okay, I’ll get us to Melissa.” Stiles said, hurrying to help Derek up, but Derek stopped him.
“Stiles, I’m...” His breaths were heavy and uneven, and his voice was weak as he looked down at his stomach. Now the blood was covering his hands, and really, how was there this much blood, that couldn’t be good. “You gotta do it now. It’s...”
“Deaton, I gotta do it now.” Stiles said, and his voice was shaking, but his hands were stiller than ever, so that was a good sign, right?
Stiles worked on distracting Derek, keeping him awake as he literally sewed him up, rambling his way through it, as though this was just your average Tuesday. Which, it kind of was for Stiles.
“I bet you’re glad it was me who decided to crash on your couch.” He was saying, pushing the needle through Derek’s skin, focusing on his own words, rather than the fact that the needle was going through Derek’s skin. “I carry a first aid kit everywhere, which has, coincidentally, worked out perfectly.” His fingers slipped a few times, all of the blood making it difficult to keep a hold of the right things. “You don’t have a single band-aid in here, dude.” He forced himself to hear past the ringing in his ears that seemed to get louder every time he focused on the blood. So much of it. Too much. “When you’re all healed up, I’m going out and I’m getting you all the essentials. Can never be too careful, right?”
In the back of his mind, Stiles was registering the fact that Derek was humming along to his conversation, and he was eternally grateful to know that Derek was, at least, still conscious.
By the time Stiles finished up the stitches that Deaton had coached him through, he was fairly certain Derek wasn’t going to die anymore. He was already looking less pale, and he was returning to a normal temperature, so Deaton wished them goodbye with clear instructions to call if anything else happens.
When the phone disconnected, Stiles and Derek sat for a few moments in complete silence. Stiles watched Derek carefully, making sure he really was okay, and Derek simply took a minute to get his breath back to normal.
Stiles realised that his hands were still very much on Derek’s stomach, and that was very much not where his hands should be, so he removed them. He probably would have washed the blood off his hands, helped Derek get ready to go back to sleep again, then passed out himself, if Derek hadn’t made that noise when Stiles stopped touching him. It was almost a needy whimper, and it made it seem as though Stiles’ hands were supposed to be back on Derek’s stomach.
They both stayed like that, in silence, for a minute. Derek’s eyes were slightly wider than usual, as though he had just realised that he had made that sound out loud. And Stiles was sure his face looked the same, because he suddenly realised how close he and Derek were. In fact, they were in a very... compromising position.
Derek was sitting shirtless on the couch, his legs spread wide to make room for where Stiles was sitting, wedged in between Derek’s thighs. Stiles supposed that the whole mortal danger portion of the evening had distracted him from how fucking close he was to Derek.
Stiles wasn’t sure quite why he did it, but he felt himself reaching up to Derek’s cheek, smoothing away some hair that was stuck to his face. They both seemed to hold their breaths at that, neither of them daring to move.
Derek seemed weirdly okay with Stiles touching him like this, so Stiles let himself drag his hand down, over Derek’s jaw, down his throat, down his chest, before it finally came to a stop right over Derek’s stitches. Derek was breathing heavily, as was Stiles, and both of them had been looking at each other for so long.
Stiles didn’t think much about it before he did it. All he could think about was how much of Derek’s blood was on his hands - how much of it was stained down Derek’s cheek, jaw, throat, chest, reminding Stiles of exactly where he had touched Derek. And then Stiles was kissing him, hard.
The kiss was all heat and years of built up anger and bliss, aside from Stiles’ hand, which still rested over Derek’s stitches with a feather-light touch, marking where Stiles couldn’t touch roughly.
By the time they were finished the first time, they finally realised they were covered in blood.
The second time was spent in the shower.
The third time happened because they were finally clean, and wasn’t that a cause for celebration?
They didn’t have the energy for a fourth time that night, but they kept hooking up after that. It was the most satisfying coping mechanism Stiles had had in a long time. They would see each other after pack meetings, after fights, when they were stressed, angry, happy, when they were bored. They saw each other a lot.
Which was good, because it meant Stiles was able to keep an eye on how the stitches were healing. They were healing as though Derek wasn’t even a werewolf, which worried Stiles at first, but he silently and selfishly loved knowing that it would eventually scar.
They never spoke about what they were. Now was not the time for things such as communication. Now was the time for being dumb and reckless, because who knew if they would make it out alive?
It only occurred to Stiles that he wanted to make it out alive when he was standing with his pack, ready to fight the most powerful witches known to man. He felt the air around him pulse with magic, he heard someone screaming in the distance, and he saw Lydia looking down at her shaking hands as though she could still see the blood dripping off of them.
That was when he realised that he wanted to make it out alive for Derek. With Derek. Because, fuck it, they had already almost died enough for one lifetime.
He realised it as his heart sped up and his throat went tight and his whole body trembled under the weight of the air as they all stood, waiting for the coven to come. Waiting for death.
He guessed Derek realised it at the same time, too, because his fingers laced with Stiles’ and the last thing Stiles heard before the coven finally came into view was Derek’s whispered voice.
Four whispered words, and then the air thickened unbearably, and then they were here.
He had left that behind after about the fifth time he had been saved from certain death by Derek. He didn’t flinch every time he got close now, his death threats softened around the edges, and he often felt himself fighting a smile when arguing with Derek. He wasn’t scared of him anymore.
At least, that's what he thought.
It was when they were in Mexico. When Derek had been on the floor with his chest clawed open, blood staining his lips, and a look on his face that said “goodbye”. That was when Stiles had felt it again. That unmistakeable fear. That was the moment that Stiles had realised how fucking terrified he was of losing Derek.
He was going to stay. He was going to get down on his knees right there and do something. Perform surgery on the muddy ground in Mexico, carry him all the way back to Beacon Hills, anything. But Derek had looked right at him, and had told him to go. It took everything he had to pull his eyes away from Derek, take a deep breath and turn away.
“Save him.” Derek had said, and Stiles wanted to ask, but who will save you?
And then, Derek had lived.
He had evolved. He was stronger. Faster. And Stiles was left with the feeling in his chest that he had only noticed that day. When he had thought that Derek was dying. When he had realised how much he loved him.
[read more under the line]
It was an awful feeling, really. He would feel it tugging on his chest, as though he were the one who had died that day. He felt it when Derek had left, lost contact with the rest of them. And he felt it again when he finally had proof that Derek was still alive. Of course, he was running from the FBI, but that didn’t matter to Stiles.
When the dust had settled after everything - when all of the fighting had stopped - Derek said he was leaving again. He had packed a bag and that was that. Stiles was losing him again. Maybe in a few years, he would run into him while he fought an alpha and he would feel that painful tugging on his chest again. Maybe, by then, it would be more of a dull ache.
Except, he didn’t have to wait a few years. Because Derek showed up at Stiles’ door in the middle of the night, rain pouring down his face and his breaths heavy.
“What are you doing here? I thought you were gone already.” Stiles said, but Derek didn’t respond. Stiles frowned. “You wanna come in, big guy? You’re soaked.” Stiles said, opening the door further so that Derek could fit through. But, Derek didn’t come in. He simply stood there, looking at Stiles, a frown on his face. “Listen, dude, I’ve gotta be up in like 5 hours for an interview so if you’re gonna -”
“What’s wrong with you?” Derek interrupted.
Stiles’ frown deepened. “Excuse me?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Derek repeated. “Ever since I came back to Beacon Hills, you’ve been... in pain.”
Stiles felt his heart stop for a moment, and prayed that Derek didn’t notice. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” Stiles said, but his voice was raspy, so he cleared his throat.
Derek sighed and shook his head, little droplets of water springing off his hair as he did so. “I can hear you lying, Stiles.”
Stiles felt panic and anger bubble up inside of him, and, yep, he was definitely still afraid of Derek. “Why do you even care? You should be halfway across the country by now.”
Derek finally pushed past Stiles, then, making his way into the hallway and pacing.
“It doesn’t make any sense.” Derek was muttering quickly as he paced, and Stiles had to wonder if he was finally losing his mind. “It’s not an injury. I would be able to tell if it was an injury. But you smell so much of pain, it’s basically hurting me at this point.”
“Oh my god, it doesn’t even matter. Just leave.” Stiles said, louder than he meant to, and his arms flailed out as he spoke.
“No.” Derek said, his voice verging on a growl. He breathed once, twice, three times, before repeating the word, softer this time. “No.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I can’t leave until I know.”
Stiles frowned and he said nothing for a few moments. When he did speak, his voice was barely a whisper. “Why do you even care?”
Derek sighed. “Because,” He swallowed, his throat bobbing up and down as he did so. “I just do.”
“I’m not...” Stiles broke off and cleared his throat, trying again. “I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.” It was at that moment that Derek stormed forward and placed his hand on Stiles’ chest, his fingers splayed out. Stiles closed his eyes as he saw Derek’s veins turn black, felt the pain seep out of his body until he was left with a fuzzy feeling. “See? You’re in pain, Stiles. You’re not okay. What is it?”
Stiles sighed and opened his eyes. It was hard to think straight when Derek’s hand was still on his chest, even after his veins had lightened.
“I’m...” Stiles’ voice was barely a whisper, but he knew Derek could hear him, even without the super-hearing. He was standing so close to him. “I’ve been like this since Mexico.” He winced. “Since you almost died.”
Derek frowned, and he let his hand slowly slip off of Stiles’ chest, but he didn't back away. In fact, he seemed to lean in slightly, as though he was trying to listen to something important. It made Stiles’ heart hurt, even through the fuzzy haze Derek had put him in.
Derek looked down at Stiles’ chest, before looking back up to his eyes, and Stiles knew he knew. How could he not?
The whole house was silent for what felt like forever, before Derek finally spoke.
“That long?” He whispered, and Stiles nodded.
“Unfortunately.”
There was another long silence, before Stiles eventually took a deep breath and shook his head.
“We don’t have to speak about this, okay? Let’s just... You go. Leave. Do whatever,” He gestured vaguely, although he was sure it looked more like a flail. “Whatever it is you were gonna do, and I’ll... I’ll just -”
Stiles was cut off by Derek lunging forward, his lips meeting Stiles’ with an urgency that Stiles wasn’t expecting. It only took a second for Stiles to kiss him back, his hands finding their way to Derek’s face.
They stood like that for what felt like forever. When Derek eventually pulled away, his breathing was heavy as he rest his forehead against Stiles’.
“I love you, too.” Derek whispered, and Stiles finally felt the pain in his chest subside, melting away without the help of Derek’s powers.
“Fuck.” Stiles said, laughing breathlessly. “Does this mean you’re staying?”
“Fuck, yes.” Derek breathed out, before kissing Stiles again.
Nobody knows when Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy got together.
The strangers on the street who ask are often met with an answer along the lines of, “piss off”, or, “it’s none of your fucking business”. When children ask, Harry bends down and tells them, “I wasn’t much older than you were when I met him”. They tell their friends and family that they started dating all those years ago, back when they were 11 years old. Back when they should have been friends.
But no one quite knows the true story.
No one knows that Draco had shown up at Grimmauld Place, all those years after the war, the rain on his face covering up the tear tracks running down it. No one knows that Harry had invited him in for a cup of tea when Draco had said those two words that Harry had been waiting to hear from him.
“I’m sorry.”
That was the first cup of tea Harry ever made for Draco, but he remembered how he took it every time thereafter. Four sugars and a dash of milk. He had made a joke into the silence of the room. Something meaningless along the lines of, “do you want some tea with your sugar?”. Draco hadn’t laughed.
He had cried, though.
He cried whilst Harry handed him a biscuit. The ones with the chocolate on them. Harry had no idea how he knew that they were Draco’s favourite - he just knew.
Draco asked Harry how he had gotten through it. All of the death and the grief and the heaviness of the war. And Harry had told him he hadn’t. He had simply... survived. Just barely.
It wasn’t until the next day that Harry found out why Draco had stumbled into Harry’s home after years of silence. That was when he had seen the papers.
Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy, dies in Azkaban.
And then it was Harry who stumbled into Draco’s home, and he, too, let those two words spill from his lips.
“I’m sorry.”
They had talked about nothing but Lucius that night - the good memories and the bad. Harry made bad jokes that weren’t quite at Draco’s expense and Draco had let himself smile, just for a moment.
That was the first night Harry stayed over at Draco’s. He fell asleep on the sofa with his head in Draco’s lap, whilst Draco watched TV and cried every now and then.
Harry stayed over most nights after that, but it wasn’t until a month later - when they were laying on the floor of Draco’s bedroom - that Draco had murmured those two little words that Harry had been waiting to hear from him.
“Kiss me.”
So Harry did. He let the sugary tea go cold on the dresser, let the minutes tick by on the clock, and let the night outside grow colder, all as he basked in the safety and warmth and Draco of it all.
Harry knew the way the world thought of him and Draco. He knew the general theories on how and why they were together. He knew that most guesses involved fights and anger and hatred and heat.
None of them involved apologies and tears and tea that was far too sweet.
“Go home, Harry.” Draco said a moment after he opened the door, his face carefully blank.
Harry frowned and shook his head, pushing past Draco into his flat. “No.”
Draco sighed as he closed the door, a hesitant resignation to the conversation that needed to be had. “There’s nothing more to speak about.”
“Of course there is.”
“If you’re here to yell, just do it.” Draco said, looking at the ground.
Harry didn't want to yell. He hated losing his temper - it made him feel as though he wasn't in control anymore - but he had to. There was too much to say.
“Who is he?” Harry asked, his tone steady for now.
Draco swallowed and met Harry’s gaze. “You and I aren’t together, Harry. I don’t owe you this.”
Harry nodded, because it was true. Draco didn’t owe Harry anything. But Harry had to know.
“Who is he?” He asked again, his voice slightly louder this time.
Draco’s eyes narrowed. His voice was full of malice and pent-up rage when he spoke, his voice getting louder with every word. “Fine, you really want to know? We work together, Harry. That’s all it was, until you told me I couldn’t have him -”
Harry interrupted, exclaiming, “I never -”
“Stop!” Draco said, his voice loud and his face screwed up in anger. Harry was used to fighting with Draco. He had been doing it since he was 11 years old. But he had never seen Draco quite this angry. “I’ve had enough of this, Harry! We can’t keep having the same fight. We’re not together and we never will be, so fucking stop.”
Harry’s frown deepened. “Right. We’re not together.” He shook his head. “We’re just friends with occasional benefits, yeah?” Harry was aware his voice was getting louder, but he didn’t care. “That’s all it ever was, nothing more. I’m just here for you to use whenever you’re sad.”
“It wasn’t like that and you know it.” Draco said, and they were both shouting now, but neither of them cared. “Don’t make it seem like I -”
“No, it was like that. That’s all it ever was for you. But, I - I waited for you, Draco!”
“I didn’t ask you to wait for me!” Draco yelled, and his eyes flashed with hurt for a moment, before he quickly set his expression back to anger.
“That’s the fucking thing.” Harry shouted. He sighed and shook his head, deflating. When he spoke again, his words were soft and quiet. “You would never ask.” He swallowed. “You never ask me for anything. Have you noticed that?”
Draco’s face was carefully neutral, as was his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harry squeezed his eyes shut, collecting his thoughts for a moment, before opening them and speaking, his voice barely a whisper. “You never ask me for anything.” He took a deep breath. “Because you don’t think you deserve it.”
“That’s not...” Draco whispered and trailed off, biting his lip.
Harry took a shuddering breath. “Look, I don't know if we should be with each other. I don’t know if you want me. It’s just... You deserve someone, Draco.” Harry scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a deceptively light laugh. “You deserve someone who remembers that you take three sugars in your tea, and who knows that you bite your lip when you’re trying not to cry, and who wakes you up for work in the morning because you can’t do it yourself, and who takes you to your father’s grave even though you hated him more than anything - maybe even more than you hate yourself - and who tells you to apologise when you’re being a prick, and who... Just... Someone who makes you happy.” Harry could feel the tears falling hot on his face, but he couldn’t care enough to stop them. “And if that person isn’t me...” He swallowed, his voice a whisper in the silence of the room. “Well, then, that’s okay. I can leave and let you find them.” He shook his head. “You just deserve to be happy, okay?”
Draco’s eyes were wide and glittering with unshed tears in the silence that followed Harry’s voice. He looked down at the ground before speaking, his voice cracking slightly.
“I ruin things, Harry.”
Harry’s heart broke just a little bit at the sound of Draco’s voice, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah, you do. You go out and shag the people you work with when things get too good. But I’ll forgive you, anyway. Even when you ruin things.” Draco was staring at Harry, now, with an odd look on his face, and a single tear making its way down his face. “You deserve nice things.”
Neither of them spoke for a few moments. They simply stared at each other, their breaths heavy and their heartbeats fast.
And then, before Harry could understand what was happening, Draco was kissing Harry - softly and so sweetly that Harry was afraid his teeth would rot. It was beautiful and slow and the opposite of every kiss they had shared up until then.
By the time they pulled away, both of them were breathing heavily and, when Draco spoke, his voice was low in between breaths.
“You make me happy, Harry.” He let out an odd little laugh and let his forehead rest against Harry’s. “Of course it's you. It’s always been you.”
He didn’t like telling people he was in pain. He didn’t like explaining why he needed trust to be earned. He didn’t like talking about how much he was still hurting after all these years. He just didn’t like asking to be loved.
But Stiles did it anyway. He didn’t wait for Derek to ask. He simply loved him.
Stiles didn’t mind asking to be loved.
He didn’t mind smiling at someone openly. He didn’t mind explaining why he wrote a paper on the homoeroticism of Greek mythology instead of going to bed. He didn’t mind telling people he didn’t sleep well last night. He didn’t mind asking to be loved.
But he didn’t need to ask Derek. Derek loved him anyway.
And they never said it - not even on their wedding day. They never told each other. But it didn’t matter. Because they loved each other even if they didn’t say it.
Stiles was open. Derek was not. But they loved each other for it and that’s all that mattered to either of them.
listen no way home was one of my favourite films in the mcu but the sheer level of advertising marvel put into it whilst shang-chi was basically being singlehandedly advertised by simu liu himself doesn't feel right to me
Listen….. idk what it is about the absolute yearning that comes from stories where both people are into each other but they are not aware of the other’s feelings but they still look at the relationship they have atm and go “being this close is enough. I’m glad with just this” but i go feral each time
Ok so I’ve struggled with dissociation for about a year now and I’ve been in therapy for a couple of months. One thing that always used to make me panic was not knowing why it was happening. Without knowing the cause, it was hard to feel as though I had any control over it. Therapy isn’t accessible to everyone so I thought I would write down the insight my therapist has given me in the hopes that it helps somebody else.
1. It's a trauma response - this may seem obvious, but I needed someone else to explain it to me. In the same way that others struggle with panic attacks, dissociating is a way for your mind to protect itself. As scary and shitty as it can be, it is actually a perfectly healthy coping mechanism. If you notice that you are dissociating, try to think about what lies underneath it (I know this can be difficult). What physical or emotional pain is causing this? What fear, stress or sadness is your brain numbing itself to? You don’t have to solve these issues or ‘fix’ them. Just acknowledging them helps you to remember why this is happening in the first place.
2. Triggers can be anything - triggers don't have to be reminders of the trauma itself. For me, being in a location that I have dissociated frequently/intensely in before can cause me to check out of reality. My vision also plays a big part in what I feel is real - if something doesn’t look real, I will convince myself that it isn’t - and my therapist has recommended sitting, closing my eyes and breathing for a few moments. I don’t have to be thinking about anything in particular, but the fact that I am not focusing on whether or not my surroundings look real can help me remember who I am. It may be the case that the sound of things can trigger dissociation for you, in which case it may help to focus on what you see around you. Not everyone is the same.
3. Talking about it can help - I have dissociated through many traumatic events in my life. Whilst this helped me get through them in the moment, it can be frustrating and scary to have no memory of myself in these experiences. “A traumatic thing has happened to you and no one was there to witness it, not even yourself. Talking to someone provides another witness telling you that it wasn’t okay and that it really happened” - a direct quote from my therapist, which speaks for itself. You don't have to speak to a therapist (that’s a privilege not everybody can afford), but even telling a friend or family member can help you to confirm that, yes, it happened and, yes, it was awful, but I am here now and I am coping the best I can.
4. You may never be fully here and that’s okay - this has been an absolute bitch to learn. The knowledge that I may live my life never fully feeling real or being able to experience the world as others do is terrifying, but it is also okay. It is okay that I do not live life the way I used to. It is okay that my brain does this to protect me. It is okay that I struggle to remember (both good and bad) things. It is okay because, in an odd way, reality is subjective. The way I live my life is okay, because it is my life and it can be shit but it is also mine. I have spent so long trying to return to reality because that is the way others live their lives. I don’t have to do this. Neither do you.
5. Wanting to feel real for the good moments is also okay - I have been struggling with this a lot recently. I have accepted the fact that I dissociate, but it still makes it difficult to accept when I can’t remember the good times. Dissociation wipes out the bad stuff, but it can also take the good stuff, too. It is okay to be angry at this. I experience FOMO about my own life, and that’s scary. I am allowed to be angry that my trauma has taken things from me. Anger is good.
6. Dissociation is a trauma response but it can also be traumatising - as I said earlier, reminders of dissociating in the past can cause me to dissociate in the present. At one point, even hearing the word, ‘dissociation’, would send me right back into it. This is because it can be scary and lonely and, yes, traumatising. It is hard to heal from whilst you are still in it, but it is possible. You will get through this, even if you will never get out of it.
7. It is exhausting - living your life like this is draining. Constantly being on autopilot and never really feeling real is tiring. Give yourself a bit of wiggle room. Let yourself lie in and rest and watch shit TV (if that’s what you enjoy). You are working twice as hard to maintain a conversation with your friend who is checked into reality and well rested.
8. Other people acknowledging your existence can be important - this has made life in lockdown difficult for me. Having someone else call you by your name and ask how you are doing can help you to remember that you are an actual person. As exhausting as other people can be, they can also be necessary to remembering yourself, sometimes. I have, in the past, asked my friends to tell me if I am real, and I will continue to do so if I need this help.
What works for me won’t work for everyone, but knowing more about why I was dissociating really helped me accept and be more at peace with it. This, of course, has all been tailored to me and my trauma, but I was hoping it would help someone else, too. Dissociation is tricky. It’s less common than panic attacks, and rarely understandable unless you have experienced it before, which can become exceptionally lonely. Just know that there are other people out there who experience this, too - you are not alone with this.
Finally, if you are reading this, this is your reminder that you are real, and you will be okay (even if you aren’t right now). You are a person. You are real, even if you do not feel it.
“We’re gonna find him, Stiles.” Derek said, his voice low but firm.
They were all alone in Derek’s loft, the others already out searching Beacon Hills. Stiles’ dad had been missing for two days.
Stiles shook his head. “How do you know?”
“Because that’s what we do.”
Stiles frowned, feeling the anger bubble up inside of him. He hadn’t slept in three days and everyone around him was being so fucking optimistic, even though his dad - his only parent - was gone.
“No, it’s not, Derek. How many people have we lost?” He said, his voice getting louder with every word. “We don’t save people, we lose them. I’m not losing my dad, too.”
He had gotten so wrapped up in his anger that he didn’t realise what he was doing until his fist had already connected with Derek’s jaw. Derek pulled back instinctively, but he didn’t look shocked or in pain. In fact, he nodded.
“Feels good, right?” He said, his voice low and rough.
Stiles’ breath was heavy and his vision was almost blurry with anger. He couldn’t do anything but nod. Because it did feel good. It felt like, for once in his life, it could be Derek’s fault and not his own. And taking it out on Derek felt like it would solve everything.
“Do it again.” Derek said, stepping closer to Stiles.
Stiles frowned. “What?”
“Hit me. I’ll heal.”
Stiles licked his lips and shook his head. He couldn’t bring himself to speak. He couldn’t bring himself to lie by telling Derek he didn’t want to.
Derek took Stiles’ hand with force and curled each one of his fingers into a fist, pushing it back towards Stiles.
“This is the only thing making you feel better, so do it.” Derek said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Fucking hit me, Stiles.”
Stiles didn’t think about it. He couldn’t, anymore. He had thought too much for a whole lifetime. Instead, he pulled his hand back and then swung at Derek, putting all of his weight into it.
Derek stumbled back slightly, reaching up to touch his lip, red blood blossoming from the corner. He nodded. “Good. Again.”
Stiles wondered why Derek was letting him do this. Wondered why he was letting himself get hurt just so Stiles could feel better. But, the sounds in his head were loud and his mind was getting crowded with all of the thoughts that were stuffed in there, so he hit Derek again just to feel that split second where his mind was blissfully blank.
He did it again and again. Over and over until his hands bled and he was struggling to breathe and tears started rolling down his face and a little voice in the back of his mind was telling him that this was so wrong. Derek was good and he didn’t deserve this, but Stiles wasn’t good and this was the only thing that made him feel like everything was okay.
Eventually his hands hurt too much to keep going, so he started to knee Derek in the stomach, watching him double over, but knowing that he would eventually heal. He was sobbing by now, the tears coming fast and hot and he felt himself slowing down, feeling as though his knees were going to buckle.
He tried to hit Derek again, even as Stiles stumbled and struggled to stay upright from the exhaustion, but Derek caught his wrists with ease as his posture straightened. All of a sudden, Stiles felt arms wrapping around him, holding him up and squeezing him tight.
Stiles sobbed into Derek’s chest, feeling every ounce of pain rush through him as he cried, allowing himself to fall and knowing that he wouldn’t hit the ground while Derek was still holding him like this.
Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek as he spoke, his voice small and broken and too quiet for any human to hear. “I can’t lose him, Derek.”
He felt Derek nod against him. “I know.”
Stiles swallowed, his eyes closed as he caught his breath. “He’s all I have left.”
Derek’s response was so quiet that Stiles wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t pressed him so tightly. “You've got me.”
Stiles’ heart twisted and his knees well and truly gave out at that, but Derek was there, holding him up, and he walked him to the bed in the corner of his loft.
He lowered Stiles onto the bed slowly. “Get some sleep, Stiles. I’ll be right here.”
Stiles nodded and allowed Derek to pull the blanket up. As Derek was beginning to walk away, Stiles grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
“Thank you.” He murmured, and felt his eyes begin to close, sleep taking over him as quickly as his father had been taken.
When he woke up a few hours later, it was to Derek’s gentle touch on his shoulder.
“They found him. He’s okay.” Derek said, the corner of his mouth turning up into a small smile.
Stiles felt all of the tension drain out his body in an instant and, before he knew what he was doing, he flung himself out of the bed and wrapped his arms around Derek, hugging him tightly. “Oh, thank god.” He said, his words nothing but an exhale of relief.
He didn't know why he had felt as though it was okay to hug Derek - perhaps it was the way Derek had held him the day before, his arms strong and comforting around him - but, he felt Derek wrap his arms around Stiles slowly a moment later, and he realised very suddenly just how close they were to each other.
He knew that Derek realised this, too, because he could feel his breaths getting faster and his heartbeat speeding up through his shirt. Stiles was sure his own heartbeat was betraying him.
Stiles swallowed before he pulled away from Derek slowly - oh, so slowly - and he felt his breaths quicken even more, his gaze trailing up to Derek’s eyes. Derek was looking down at Stiles, his face serious yet somehow unguarded, and his face was all healed even though Stiles’ knuckles still hurt, and he was right here, just like he’d said he would be and somehow Stiles’ eyes were lowering to Derek’s lips and Derek was leaning forward and, holy shit, he was kissing Derek Hale.
It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and sweet, like honey. Derek tasted like peppermint, as though he had just brushed his teeth, and Stiles was sure he didn’t taste very good at the moment, considering the fact that he had just woken up, but he didn’t care. All he could focus on was the way Derek’s hand was on the small of Stiles’ back, and the way his other hand was making its way to the nape of Stiles’ neck, and how fucking good his lips felt.
By the time they eventually pulled away from each other, they were both breathing heavily and Stiles’ hands were fisted in Derek’s shirt. Stiles let his head fall forward, his forehead leaning against Derek’s.
“I, um...” Stiles was still breathing heavily, and his voice was low and rough. “I’ve gotta go see my dad.”
Derek nodded, moving Stiles’ head with the movement. “Yeah.” He said, and he sounded just as breathless as Stiles felt, which made Stiles (for lack of a better word) giggle slightly.
He saw the way Derek’s lips turned up into a small smile that Stiles had never seen before, and Stiles had never wanted to kiss someone more, so he did. It was brief, but beautiful, and he felt the way Derek was smiling against his lips.
“Thank you.” Stiles whispered after he pulled away. He was sure that, under usual circumstances, he would begin rambling about how he didn’t mean thank you for the kiss, although the kiss was nice, very very nice and he wants there to be much more kissing, but, no, really, thank you for letting me use you as a human punching bag and putting me to bed and hugging me and letting me cry, but Stiles didn’t feel like he needed to say any of that, this time. It felt like Derek just... understood.
So slowly, in fact, that he hadn’t even realised it was happening. One day, he had just felt it. Like an ache in his soul that ran deeper than the blinding pain of his past. There was an odd sort of peace in that.
He had noticed it when he had been face-to-face with death. Of course, for Stiles, this was a weekly occurrence. But this... This was different. Death seemed a certainty. It was staring him down, reaching its hands out to grip its icy hands around his neck as he felt the blood drain from his stomach, slow at first, then so, so fast.
His vision was blurring by the time he had heard Derek’s howl, shaking the floor Stiles was lying on and making its way deep into his bones. Stiles had wondered why he was howling - his fuzzy brain trying to piece together which member of the pack Derek was trying to find. Then, he had felt the ground move beneath him, making his stomach lurch and his heart stutter. When it was replaced by strong arms around him he had realised why Derek was howling. Because Stiles was dying.
Derek had carried him all the way to the hospital. He had ran there. Stiles didn’t remember a lot of it, the blood spilling out of his side causing his mind to soften around the edges. But, what he did remember was Derek’s voice as he ran, low and pleading.
“Stiles, please hold on.” He had said. “Just another few minutes. Please, another few minutes. We’re almost there.”
And then Stiles had felt something on his face and it tingled even though he wasn’t sure it was supposed to, but he was dying, okay? He was allowed to not feel things right. When he had opened his eyes, he had seen Derek’s face. It was as tragically beautiful as ever, but he saw Derek’s tears rolling down his face to land on Stiles’ own and, god, wasn’t that glorious?
And that was the moment he had realised how hopelessly in love with Derek Hale he was.
He hadn't been sure. Perhaps it was just the moment. A dizzy, lack-of-blood-induced fever that had momentarily consumed him. But, when he woke up from his surgery, his vision had been blurry and his throat had been sore and he couldn’t quite breathe right just yet, but he had felt a hand gripping his and he had heard Derek’s voice, low and cracking at the edges.
“Thank you.” He had said. “Thank you for holding on.”
And that was that. He was definitely in love. He was swimming in it, drowning under the weight of his own feelings.
He never told Derek. He could never do that. When he had seen Derek for the first time after he had healed, the words stuck in his throat and his heart betrayed him with the way it hammered so incessantly, each beat sounding out Derek’s name. Instead, he had simply spoken into the quiet of the room he and Derek stood in, his voice low and terrified.
“Kiss me?” He had asked.
And that was the first time he had kissed Derek.
Stiles never got around to telling Derek that he loved him, and Derek never told Stiles, either. Neither of them trusted words quite as much as they trusted each other. Stiles figured he had watered down every other sincerity with words and he couldn’t do that with Derek. He wouldn’t.
Because Derek was cold, but he wasn’t ice. He was the slow breeze on a scalding summer’s day, and that was fucking beautiful to Stiles. What else was beautiful was how warm Derek was. He was what filled Stiles’ stomach with butterflies whenever he was close, but he was also the burning heat that was as terrifying as it was stunning.
And Stiles knew that Derek was it. The real thing. Because Derek wasn't perfect but he was still beautiful and isn’t that what it means to be human? The complexities that live beyond what meets the eye. The beauty that’s ingrained in pain and sacrifice, but also the beauty that blooms in the small joys and the selfishness needed to survive.
This shit was revolutionary for the mid-90s. Among other things it helped me understand that transgender and cross-dressing were completely separate things.
To this day, I am in awe of the fact that Patrick Swayze not only campaigned hard to get the audition, not only auditioned in dress and makeup, but spent most of the day leading up to the audition walking around LA in dress and makeup.
This was a man who could sing, dance, act, ride a horse, fight, and walk in heels, he had nothing to prove to anyone, and he is MISSED.
If you’re younger, you may not know Patrick Swayze; he was Taken From Us in 2009. But Patrick Swayze was an icon of masculinity. Men were willing to watch romantic movies because Patrick Swayze was in them.
Patrick Swayze was fucking beefcake.
And this man didn’t just agree to do a movie where the only time he’s not actually in drag is the first three minutes, which involve stepping out of the shower, doing make up, and getting Dressed. He has ONE LINE that is delivered in a man’s voice, and it’s not during those three minutes.
And if you watch those three minutes, you see a stark difference between his portrayal of Miss Vida Bohéme and Wesley Snipes as Noxeema Jackson. (I am not criticizing Snipes’ performance. They were different roles.) Noxeema was a comedy character. Chi-Chi was a comedy character. But Miss Vida Bohéme was a dramatic role, played by a dramatic powerhouse.
When Vida sits down in front of the mirror, she sees a man. And she doesn’t like it.
Then she puts her hair up, and her face lights up.
“Ready or not,” she says. “Here comes Mama.”
And while Noxeema is having fun with her transformation (at one point breaking into a giggling fit after putting on pantyhose), Vida is simply taking pleasure in bringing out her true self. And when she’s done, she sees this:
And you can FEEL her pride.
All of this from an actor who, up to this point, walked on to the screen and dripped testosterone.
It matters that this happened in 1995. It wouldn’t fly today, wouldn’t be the right choice, we’ve moved past it, but it mattered and was important that it happened the way it happened then. It’s one of the stepping stones.
Not that he would admit it to anybody, of course. It wasn't his friends’ fault for quite literally forgetting his existence. It was just... Well, after the whole world forgetting about him, it was fairly self explanatory.
When he started his internship with the FBI, he felt it worse than he ever had before. His friends still called him, of course, and Scott would text him daily. But, there were times when his pack would be too busy to message him. There were mornings where he would wake up to no texts and no emails. He would stand in front of the mirror, unsure if it was really him staring back. Some days he wouldn't even see himself. Instead, he would see... a shadow. Someone who was long gone but continued to haunt him. He would look in the mirror and see the smirk of a murderer, rather than his own smile.
That was, until Derek fucking Hale.
Sure, he was a fugitive of the law, but when Stiles had realised that he was alive - that he hadn’t just been hiding from the pack - it was like... another opportunity. He hadn't even realised it until Derek himself was holding him, carrying him out of a building full of people after him, rolling his eyes at Stiles’ dramatics.
He had looked at him afterwards, though - really looked at him - and had said, “It’s good to see you, Stiles”.
He had seen Stiles every day after that. At first, it was because they were travelling back to Beacon Hills together. Then, it was because they had to do the whole ‘fighting evil’ thing. But, then it was... Different. He would bring Stiles coffee, or come over with a new book that he had found in his family’s vault, or some other excuse. It was as though he understood it. The need to be remembered. The need to be thought of.
“I started reading that book you recommended”, he would say. Or, “I found this cafe you would love”. Sometimes even, “I thought of you the other day”, although that was a rarity.
Stiles didn’t think that Derek knew what he was doing until he had walked right into Stiles’ room when Stiles had been crying. Derek had found him, standing in front of the mirror and sobbing, trying to make sense of himself, and he had said his name.
“Stiles.”
Right. Stiles.
“Stiles, you’re alright. You’re safe.”
He was, wasn’t he?
“You’re here. I see you. It’s okay.”
He was here? He was here.
“I remember you. You’re here. You’re you.”
By the time Stiles was convinced of this fact, he realised he was wrapped in Derek’s arms. He didn’t think he ever wanted to leave. Derek sounded safe, and he smelled like fresh coffee and he felt like home, and Stiles was still crying, but Derek was still holding him, anyway.
“You’ll be okay.” Derek said and, for once, Stiles was starting to believe him.
“You remember me?” Stiles asked, his voice small and hoarse and muffled against Derek.
After every fight with a new big bad, Derek would wordlessly climb in through Stiles’ window and take away the pain from any of his injuries, before nodding at him and leaving silently.
It had been terrifying the first time it had happened - a man who could kill him in a heartbeat being able to get so close to him - but somewhere along the way it had become a comforting familiarity that relaxed Stiles as much as it scared him.
At first, Derek left as soon as Stiles was feeling better, never hovering for longer than necessary. But, when Stiles’ side had been clawed open and he was already drowsy from the hospital’s pain meds, he had grabbed Derek’s arm and asked him to stay. He wasn't quite sure why he had done this, let alone where he had found the confidence to actually ask, but something about it had caused Derek’s expression to waver and he had nodded and sat on the edge of the bed until Stiles fell asleep.
He was gone by the time Stiles woke up.
As often as this happened, it came as a surprise to Stiles when he heard the familiar opening of his window, one stormy night, and a soft grunt as Derek landed in his room.
“Derek?” He whispered, frowning. “What’s going on? I’m not hurt.”
Derek groaned slightly and his voice was breathless when he spoke. “I know. I am.”
Stiles turned on his light to see Derek’s bleeding torso, scratches running along his chest, his shirt too torn-up to be useful any longer.
“Shit. What happened?”
Derek was grinding his teeth in pain, breathing heavily as his arm clutched his stomach.
“It was an alpha. I’ll be fine. It’ll just take longer to heal.”
Stiles wanted to ask why he came here, of all places - Stiles wasn’t strong enough to help him trigger the healing process, and it wasn’t as though he and Derek were friends - but he swallowed his words against the thought that Derek didn’t actually have any friends.
“Sit down.” He said instead, breathing through the panic at the pain in Derek’s features, and getting up to grab the first aid kit that he kept in his room in case of emergencies.
“Stiles, I’ll heal.” Derek said, even as he sat down on Stiles’ bed, wincing.
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Yeah, but right now you’re not and since you chose to climb through the token human’s window instead of, I don’t know, a werewolf with super-strength, there’s no way to trigger the healing process right now.” He sat beside Derek and helped him off with his shirt. “The least we can do right now is help your body think it’s healing. That’s what we did with Scott back when...” Stiles cleared his throat. “Back when we thought you were dead.”
Derek nodded slightly, which Stiles took as permission to start helping him. He was stopped after a few minutes of tending to Derek’s wounds however, with a hand gripping his arm tightly. He looked down to see Derek’s claws out, and he could hear a slight growl in Derek’s breathing.
“I... I can’t control it.” Derek ground out. Stiles looked up to see his eyes glowing blue and his fangs out. “Not when I’m in pain like this.”
Stiles wanted to tell him there had to be more to it than that. He wanted to tell him that he had controlled it before, when he was suffering much worse. But the look on Derek’s face - the fear and the desperation that showed how terrified he was of losing control - stopped him.
Instead, he simply nodded and started packing away the first aid supplies. “What do we do?” He asked quietly.
Derek swallowed. “Can I just...” He closed his eyes. “Can we just lie here? For a minute?”
Stiles tried to keep his heartbeat steady - tried not to give away just how shaky he felt hearing those words - so, he didn’t speak. He just nodded and helped Derek shift down on the bed, before moving to lie down beside him.
Neither of them spoke. They simply lay in the silence and Derek’s heavy breathing.
Eventually, Derek let out a quiet pained whimper, and Stiles couldn’t take it anymore. He shifted closer to Derek, turning onto his side, and reaching out to card his fingers through Derek's hair before he could think better of it.
He felt Derek relax into the touch slightly and his breathing deepened, so Stiles moved closer still and continued moving his hand in Derek’s hair. He let his other hand rest on Derek’s chest, right over his heart, making sure to avoid the gashes across his torso.
Stiles spoke before he even realised he had anything to say and his voice was quiet and rough. “I wish I could take away your pain.”
Derek looked over at Stiles, his eyes wide and vulnerable. “You are.” He whispered, and his gaze dropped to Stiles’ mouth.
Stiles’ breathing quickened and he swallowed before deciding, fuck it, and moving in, his lips pressing against Derek’s softly and briefly. He started to pull away, but Derek’s hand grabbed Stiles’ cheek softly, and pulled him back in and, holy shit, he was kissing Derek Hale.
After a few moments, Derek made a small sound in the back of his throat and broke away from the kiss, his breathing heavy and his eyes glowing.
“I... I can’t, Stiles.” His hand dropped away from Stiles’ face. “I can't control it. Not when I’m in pain like this and not when you’re kissing me like that.”
Stiles swallowed. He nodded. “Okay.”
He started to remove his hands from Derek’s hair, but Derek stopped him again. “Wait, no. I didn’t mean...” He groaned in frustration. “Not when I’m in pain, that’s all. But I want... I need...” He sighed. “Can we just lie here for now?”
Stiles smiled. He understood what Derek meant, so he nodded. “Alright, big guy. Not now.” Stiles relaxed further into the bed, his hands still on Derek. “Rest up. You need to stop being in pain as soon as fucking possible, okay?”
The corner of Derek’s mouth twitched up and he nodded. “Just... Just keep doing that?”
Stiles smiled and let his hands wander through Derek’s hair.
It started out small. Like when someone mentioned the Wild Hunt and Derek’s eyebrows would knit together slightly. Sometimes he would tense up and turn to Stiles, looking as though he were ready to ask a question. Stiles noticed it, of course, but he never thought it through until Derek had been talking about his time spent on the run from the FBI.
“I had such little sleep that it was hard to tell if I was awake sometimes. That thing you taught me about counting fingers really helped.”
Stiles was about to ask how he remembered it if Stiles wasn’t even supposed to exist back then. But, the conversation moved on and the question slipped his mind.
Eventually Stiles put it together, when Derek started speaking about the wolfsbane bullets that the hunters had managed to shoot him with while he was on the run.
“It was the same bullet that I’d been shot with the first time I asked for your help - the one that almost cost me an arm.”
Derek was smiling slightly at the memory, an oddly fond look on his face, and Stiles mentally kicked himself for needing to know everything and not just enjoying Derek’s expression.
“Wait a minute, this was at the same time I was taken by the Wild Hunt, right?” Stiles asked, his eyes narrowing in thought.
“I think so.”
Stiles shook his head and frowned. “Then, how did you remember any of this?” Stiles’ eyes widened slightly. “Derek, did you... remember me?”
Derek looked down at his hands. “I... I don’t know.”
Stiles swallowed. “But, that’s... That’s impossible. Like absolutely, definitively impossible.”
Derek sighed and met Stiles’ gaze again. “I think maybe I did remember you. But, we’ve never really... you never told me that I should have forgotten you.”
Stiles bit his lip in thought. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Derek shrugged and shook his head. “I know.”
“You... The memories were probably like my Jeep, right?” Stiles asked after a few minutes of silence and the sound of his own brain whirring. “Like, they were left behind. They were an oversight, almost. A reminder.”
Derek swallowed and nodded. “Probably.”
Stiles nodded back, but the air was heavy with something he couldn’t quite name. Maybe it meant nothing - a simple glitch in the Wild Hunt. But it felt like it meant something. It felt like it was important, somehow.
“Maybe we should speak to Deaton about it. Or we could check the bestiary.”
Stiles stood up, ready to go into research mode, but Derek stopped him with a hand curling firmly around his wrist.
“Stiles, wait.”
Stiles frowned as Derek stood up, facing Stiles, but not letting go of his wrist.
“I... I sort of put things together recently.” Derek admitted. “I realised that I shouldn’t have remembered you.” He cleared his throat. “I looked into it, but nothing really came of it.”
Stiles frowned. “Okay. So, why didn’t you bring it up?”
Derek let out a breath of air before speaking again. “Because it kinda feels like...” He shook his head. “It feels like I couldn’t forget you.” He cleared his throat and seemed to make a decision in his head before his voice came out, softer than Stiles was expecting. “Stiles, it’s like... I would forget the whole world before I forget you.”
Stiles’ breathing quickened and his eyes widened slightly. His voice was practically a whisper when he finally managed to say, “Really?”
Derek nodded, his eyes falling to where his hand was still wrapped around Stiles’ wrist.
Stiles didn’t know what to say. He was speechless and he didn’t do well with silences, so he let his free hand wander to Derek’s jaw - let his thumb brush over his cheekbone - before leaning in and kissing him gently.
It was an innocent kiss. Soft. Slow. Sweet. It was everything he had ever needed from Derek. And it stayed that way until Derek made a small sound in the back of his throat and the kiss deepened, turning into something much less innocent and much more... More. It was hot and breathless and urgent, and it was everything Stiles had ever wanted from Derek.
When they eventually pulled apart, Stiles was struggling for breath and grinning like an idiot.
