#*w:complete

[usermischief]

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale ♚ Tags: canon divergence, getting together ♚ Words: 2883

ao3

---

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Satisfied? Or do you need my social security number too?”

Still, Derek stays silent as he looks at him. It’s not particularly comforting – that is, until his gaze drops to Stiles’ mouth then flicking back up again, a slow smile curling around his lips.

Stiles’ heart jolts in his chest, and he clears his throat. “Delighted my trauma amuses you,” he mutters, disregarding the fact that he continues to make jokes about it as well.

“Delighted I don’t have to kill you.”

---

Click.

Cursing softly under his breath, Stiles flicks the light switch up again. Down. Up. Down. Up. “Fucking hell.” Stiles massages the bridge of his nose. His stupid light. Everything else – even exorcising this damned place – worked out beautifully. Which is a miracle. Thanks to the residual demon, who infested this place after the previous owners fucked around – and found out – with a Ouija board in the late 50s, this house has been in a nightmarish state. Every inch of this place was a deathtrap. Rotten wood. Broken stairs. A ceiling, roof and second floor so unstable, a gust of wind could cause everything to collapse in a heartbeat.

Stiles spent more than one night in a tent in front of the house.

A bark cuts through the silence of the house, startling him out of his thoughts. Drawing his brows together, he looks past the stubborn ceiling light to the second-floor landing. The puppy he’s found under the house, white fur crusted with dirt and blood – aptly named Bobak, Bo for short – and who has refused to leave Stiles’ side ever since he fed him for the first time, is staring at him almost expectantly. Although some dog owners most likely won’t be happy about his lifestyle – flipping and clearing out haunted houses and constantly moving around – Stiles refuses to give Bobak away. Bo might not be the cuddliest or most social of dogs, he still makes Stiles’ life less, much less, lonely.

Bo barks again.

Stiles quirks a brow. “What? It’s not dinner time yet.”

Wagging his tail, Bo bounds down the stairs, nearly tumbling down the last two steps. He catches himself, jumps up the front door once before all but flying around Stiles’ legs then, finally, making a mad dash out of the backdoor and into the yard. There, he keeps zooming around, causing colored leaves to fly into the air, and barking his adorable little head off, too big ears fluttering in the wind. He’s going to miss Bo’s floppy ears once he’s grown into them.

Before Stiles can follow him, there’s a knock on the door. He glances up at the clock, narrowing his eyes once more as it passes the current bane of existence – maybe he should just get an electrician this once – and turns to the front door. It’s not late, per se, but darkness is setting in, and people are still keeping their distance to this place. So, he isn’t usually expecting anyone to swing by, even less since his closest neighbor lives around a mile away, but the person he never imagined to come over is Derek Hale.

Drawing his brows together, Stiles swings the door open.

“Hey.” Derek’s smile seems strained. To be honest, he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else – not unlike the first time they met at the only diner in town. Well, met might be stretching it. That day, Derek couldn’t finish his lunch fast enough, even Sally was surprised by his precipitate behavior. So much so, she commented on it while serving Stiles his food.

He had chalked it up to Derek sensing something about him the same way Stiles clocked him as a werewolf the second he laid eyes on him – aside from noticing that the guy is a walking and talking Calvin Klein advertisement. Instead of avoiding him, however, Derek kept showing up all over the place. It seemed accidental, but Stiles has dealt with enough supernatural creatures and grew up with a sheriff that he can recognize stalking behavior when he sees it.

Derek’s never been lurking around here, though.

Well, not until today, that is.

And Stiles’ heart is having a field day with it, which is rather unfortunate with Derek’s supernatural hearing and all.

Stiles manages to clear his throat about thirty seconds into the terribly awkward silence. “Hey.” He sounds like an idiot. He feels like one too. “Can I- do you-” Bo interrupts him with a slew of excited barks, zooming through the hallway and back out again, sending more leaves flying around; it gives Stiles a few seconds to gather himself. “You wanna come in?”

“I bought dinner,” Derek says at the same time.

They both stare at each other, and the silence makes Stiles’ neck grow uncomfortably warm.

Luckily, Derek cuts it short. “I’d love to.”

Stiles steps aside and gestures for Derek to come in. This is happening. He’s not entirely sure how or why, but it is, and Stiles is not about to complain. The last time a hot guy walked into his home was – when? Stiles doesn’t really remember. Which is sad, honestly. Sure, he’s been aware that both his social and love life have sailed off a cliff once he started dictating his life to ghost and demon hunting, but now, watching Derek stroll into his kitchen, he realized for the first time how bad it’s really gotten in the past four years.

“Looks good,” Derek remarks, almost curious in the way he’s taking everything in. “You did an excellent job keeping the old charm alive.”

Crossing his arms, Stiles leans against the large doorway leading to the kitchen. “You’ve been here before?”

Derek shrugs as he puts the bag with the takeout on the dinner table. “Teenagers and haunted houses.”

“Werewolves too?”

If Derek is surprised that Stiles knows, he doesn’t show it. Instead, an almost cheeky grin curls around his lips. “Werewolves especially.”

Stiles snorts and crosses the room. “I expected you to be smarter.” He glances at Derek, smirking briefly, and steps in front of the only cupboard he uses. The good thing about moving around so much is that he never collects any clutter. As a teen and college student, things looked very different. Two boxes, a couple of suitcases and his backpack fit into Roscoe anyway. Now that Bo is traveling with him, he’s got to figure out the new logistics.

“How’d you do it?” Derek asks as he takes the two plates from him.

Their fingers brush, either on purpose or entirely accidental. Stiles doesn’t know, but the touch sends a tingle through his whole body. A good tingle, great even, and Stiles hates to realize how touch starved he really is.

Stiles opens the fridge, scowling a little as he’s greeted with emptiness. He really needs to go grocery shopping. “Very carefully,” he replies and grabs two bottles of beer. “And lots of research." Once he's figured out where to look, finding pictures of old houses isn’t that much of a struggle. Often, he meets the previous owners, who either think he’s suicidal or are very happy to help.

Derek watches him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. “The demon or the house flipping?”

“Ah.” Stiles sets the bottles on the table and leans against the edge. “That’s why you’re here.”

Derek merely watches him, eyebrows climbing higher as his expression turns more and more expectant. An alpha after all. He’s probably used to people jumping at his command.

It might be fun to let him stew for a little longer. “You know, you could’ve just asked.”

“I just did.”

Stiles snorts out a laugh, “I meant ask me about why those werewolf senses are tingling whenever you’re around me.” He cocks his head to the side and decides to put himself out there, for once, “unless, of course, there are other reasons for that.” He’s got Derek in his house already and considering that he leaves as soon as it is sold, there’s no harm done, no awkward darting around each other needed in case he’s rejected. Two months tops, and he’s out of this town, where everyone knows everybody, and nothing ever stays secret.

Derek’s lips twitch.

Good. So, Stiles didn’t exactly imagine the lingering looks whenever they, clearly not entirely accidentally, ran into each other absolutely everywhere. In a town with less than 100 people, it’s impossible to hide anyway.

“Tingling?” Derek echoes, more amused than in disbelief.

Stiles lets his head fall back, watching out of the corner of his eye as Derek’s gaze drops to his neck then back up again. “You’re a poor conversationalist.”

“And you’re dodging the question.”

Stiles clicks his tongue, rolling his head to the left to look at the werewolf again. “Geez, D, you can’t just ask people why they’re making you feel weird.”

A flicker of annoyance dances over his features, either at the nickname or his refusal to give him the desired reply. Still, Derek props his hands on the table and leans closer, one eyebrow raised. “I can if I consider them a danger to my pack and territory.”

Fair point.

However, “I literally exorcised this fucking demon.” Although nobody has died in this house in almost a decade, Stiles considers it future deaths prevented.

Derek taps a finger against the table, allows red to bleed into his eyes.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles pushes away from the table and faces the werewolf, arms crossed firmly in front of his chest. Although Derek didn’t outright threaten him, Stiles is fully aware that this evening could easily turn into his last if the big bad alpha considers him too dangerous, which would very much be the exact opposite of how he’d prefer this evening to go. He sighs. “I was possessed by a nogitsune when I was sixteen.” Stiles doesn't miss as Derek’s expression return to stoic, listening, waiting. He sees the way his shoulders tense, the way something in his eyes shift, ever so slightly. The moment of truth, always and forever. "It did some weird shit with my body, cracked my mind like an egg, hence the whole-” he waves his hand around. “Thought I could do something good if I can pierce the veil, you know?” It makes him feel less guilty about the shit the nogitsune did while using his body like a meatsuit.

But that’s something nobody else needs to know about.

Derek straightens.

Stiles narrows his eyes. “Satisfied? Or do you need my social security number too?”

Still, Derek stays silent as he looks at him. It’s not particularly comforting – that is, until his gaze drops to Stiles’ mouth then flicking back up again, a slow smile curling around his lips.

Stiles’ heart jolts in his chest, and he clears his throat. “Delighted my trauma amuses you,” he mutters, disregarding the fact that he continues to make jokes about it as well.

“Delighted I don’t have to kill you.”

“You think you can kill me?” Stiles chuckles, playing pretend. Dealing with demons is one thing. They’re very capable of murder, more so than ghosts, but depending on their strength and rank, they need time – time to get into your head, time to fuck with you. They have to chip away their target’s defenses. Knowing and being prepared for a demon makes dealing with them a lot easier. Plus, if he’s learned anything from his own possession, it’s how to keep things out of his mind. Werewolves are a different beast entirely. If they want someone dead, all they have to do is pin them down and rip their throat out.

Derek pushes away from the table and all but stalks closer to him, narrowing the small distance the table offers. “Of course, I could.” He runs his fingers along the edge of the table. It’s one of the few things Stiles could repair from the old furniture, so, luckily, Derek keeps his claws in check.

Stiles swallows drily and rips his gaze away from Derek’s hand, locking eyes with him again. “Awfully confident there, buddy.”

His words are met with a near predatory glint in the hazel eyes. Beautiful hazel eyes, at that. Easy to get lost in.

Focus.

“You don’t scare me.”

Derek stops directly in front of him. They’re nearly chest to chest, and although Derek isn’t necessarily taller than him, Stiles feels weirdly small. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but the way he is holding himself, the way he is looking at him – as if Stiles is a rabbit cornered by the big bad wolf. Red bleeding into his eyes accentuates the whole predator predicament.

Fucking werewolves, seriously.

“Cute,” Stiles comments anyway, uncrossing his arms and straightening his shoulders and spine. “Still not scared, though.” They’re probably both aware that’s not entirely true, but he’s never been someone to back down from a challenge. “You gotta do more than creeping around in the bushes and stare at me with your alpha eyes.” Especially since the latter is actually pretty damn hot, which isn’t exactly helping the situation.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” Derek informs him in a casual yet amused tone.

“Really? Could’ve fooled me, big guy.”

Derek chuckles, letting his head fall forward as he does so – and Stiles can’t help but watch his mouth move. It’s fascinating. Every time he’s seen Derek, the guy has been scowling. Stiles didn’t think he could chuckle, much less laugh.

Fuck, he’s pretty.

Beautiful even.

His heartbeat picks up when Derek locks eyes with him again. “You’re not very attentive.”

“Oh, really?” Now, that is just plain rude and so uncalled for. “How do you think I’m finding these demons? By paying very close attention to details. So, I am attentive. I’m actually the most at-”

Derek kisses him. No ifs. No buts. No hesitation. He just does, and his lips are so soft and warm, their touch makes Stiles’ stomach twist with anticipation. Derek moves his hands and cradles his cheeks, thumb tracing a slow, ever so gentle line along his skin. All of Derek’s hard edges are replaced by something tender and raw.

Stiles’ heart stutters in his too tight chest, and his mind blanks, every single thought swept away by the warm lips pressed to his own. He melts against Derek, pressing closer as he curls his fingers around Derek’s bicep and his eyes flutter shut. A soft, almost helpless sound escapes his throat as a warmth floods through him, followed by a kind of ache Stiles doesn’t quite have a name for. They both settle deep inside of him, spreading into every part of his body. His entire body lights up with a want he hasn’t felt in what feels like forever, a need for closeness more than just desire.

When Derek pulls back, Stiles moves with him, desperate to hold onto the kiss just a little bit longer.

Derek regards it with a soft chuckle, his warm breath ghosting over Stiles’ lips.  

The sound alone makes Stiles wants to kiss him again, but he doesn’t, clears his throat instead. No words come, which in itself is quite the curiosity, and Stiles is almost relieved at the sound of paws hitting the wood. Here to interrupt any possibility of an awkward silence. Stiles glances over his shoulder, watches as Bo enters the room and sniffs the air. It’s probably best to be upfront.

Once more, he clears his throat. “I’m not staying.” He crouches down and can’t help but smile when Bo bumps his head against his leg, demanding attention. “At least not forever. Until the house is sold, and I found the next… target, I guess.” He runs his fingers through Bo’s soft fur as he tries to ignore the way his heart aches at the thought of leaving.

For the first time in years.

Which is ridiculous. He doesn’t know Derek; not how he is as a person, that is. He only knows superficial stuff. What happened to his family, that he’s a werewolf and that he owns the only garage in town, and that he doesn’t need to crawl under cars or get car grime and oil all over himself because he’s loaded. So, he’s either doing it for fun or for the people living in this town… or both. Derek seems to be a good person, but so is Stiles, and Stiles won’t lie — he’s not only a handful, he’s also not particularly nice. Many people called him an asshole. They’re not entirely wrong.

“I’m not asking you to stay,” Derek says as he slides onto the chair at the head of the table, very clearly indicating that he’s not planning on leaving soon. “But maybe I can convince you to come back.” 

Stiles blinks up at him, scratching Bo behind his ears. “You don’t know me.”

“Yet,” Derek adds and looks down at him with a smile.

This fucking guy is going to give him a heart attack before Stiles has figured out his favorite color. Aside from that, it dawns on Stiles that he may have misjudged the guy. “So, you stalked me because you like me.”

The tips of Derek’s ears turn the slightest shade of pink. Adorable. “I never stalked you.”

Bo barks.

“He says you’re a liar.” Stiles raises to stand and pulls a chair out. “I think you followed me around, but didn’t know how to approach me.” Smirking, he sits down as Bo uses his chance to curl up under his chair.

Instead of replying, Derek opens the bag of takeout and pulls out only the best of Sally’s diner. His ears turn just a shade darker.

Stiles props his chin on his hand, not even bothering to hide the smile forming on his lips. He totally could get used to this.

[usermischief]

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Hale Pack ♚ Tags: canon divergence, established relationship, haunted house ♚ Words: 3746

part 1 | ao3

Derek places a hand on the nape of Stiles’ neck, both in warning and as an attempt to ground him.

“I’m sure we’re going to laugh about this in a few weeks,” Erica says, once again tugging at the curl wrapped around her finger. Her gaze darts from the mirror to Stiles. She lingers on him, eyes growing a little wider as she takes in his silence. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes and it drops off her face when she turns to look at her boyfriend.

Boyd nods slowly and wraps an arm around her, pulling her close.

“Oh yeah,” Jackson drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, “real funny. Ha Ha.”

The night air rustles the papers in his hand. With all the windows and the door to the garden wide open, it is finally cool enough that Stiles doesn’t want to crawl out of his skin when Derek craves contact.

Half an hour ago, they’ve settled on the couch. Stiles on Derek’s lap, arms loosely curled around his shoulders, head gently propped against his boyfriend’s as he studies the tasks for the next couple of days while Derek is breathing him in and watching one of the classic movies Stiles added on his list of need-to-watch list. Although he doubts Derek is paying much attention to it, Stiles is satisfied about the effort he’s putting in.

Bo is curled up on the mat by the open door, content with his dinner and the group of ragtag werewolves they’re now traveling with occasionally.

The muted sounds of the movie, the leaves rustling outside the windows. The soft breeze bringing in the smell of cut grass and blooming flowers.

It’s perfect.

Almost.

A prickling sensation spreads across the back of his neck. A shudder dances down his spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.

Rubbing the nape of his neck, Stiles flips to the next page. The hauntings of this house have been pretty straightforward. Flickering lights. Whispers in the night. Objects being moved just enough for someone to notice. The sensations of being watched. He taps a finger against the back of his small stack of papers and scrunches up his face.

“I can hear you think,” Derek murmurs against the nape of Stiles’ neck. “Never a good sign.”

Stiles drops the papers on the couch next to them and scoots back as much as Derek allows him. “I don’t know.” Which is a lie. He knows very well what’s bothering him. “I just– it’s like the house is spying on me.” He gestures around them. They got rid of the little girl haunting the place very early into their renovation. But something about it doesn’t seem quite right — or rather, the place feels like the first time Stiles set foot into it.

Air thick, a silence too heavy, like the house is doing it’s very best to get rid of them.

Leaning back, Derek raises a brow. His hands rest loosely on Stiles’ hip, thumbs sneaking under his shirt. He merely raises a brow in question.

“The house is old, from the 18th century, to be exact. But the girl? Her death was pretty recent. The first haunting? No idea. History gets muddled. People make up stories.”

“It’s been quiet,” Derek reminds him.

Stiles scrunches up his face. “It’s not impossible. Just... I have a weird feeling about this place. It doesn’t feel clean.”

Derek hums, runs his hands up Stiles’ side until the cool breeze causes goosebumps to spread on his skin. “You’re the one with the eggy mind.”

“Hilarious.” Stiles flicks his forehead. His eyes rake over the wall. Scrunching up his face, he collapses onto the couch, arms wrapped around Derek, who has moved with him seamlessly.

Derek kisses a trail down his neck. “If you’re having a bad feeling,” soft words painted against his collarbone, “we’ll check it out tomorrow.”

In moments like this, Stiles can’t help but wondering how he deserved Derek. He’s not used to people believing him just like that. It used to be a fight, every time. But not Derek. Smiling, Stiles closes his eyes, runs his fingers through Derek’s short strands — enjoys the mouth and blunt human teeth paying very close attention to every inch of his neck.

But there’s this nagging feeling in the back of his mind, like nails on a chalkboard, unable to ignore. He scowls, opens his eyes and-

“What the fuck?”

Something in his tone must’ve alarmed Derek because he’s on his feet in a heartbeat, looking around. The sudden movement brings Bo to the scene, barking and jumping around in a frenzy.

Yet, Stiles can’t pay any attention to either of them. His gaze is glued to the ceiling, following the lines scratched into the wallpaper. Soundless. Invisible. Jagged, violent lines. So deep, as if something wants the house to bleed.

Got him.

And the screaming starts.

Derek all but flies upstairs.

Bo, due to Stiles’ strict training, darts outside, barking at the house from the safety of the garden.

Stiles jumps off the couch, passing by the fireplace to grab a poker. Then he follows Derek upstairs, towards the hysterical screaming, taking two steps at a time. Within moments, he arrives inside the first bedroom by the stairs and utter chaos.

Air curdles in his lungs. The sour stench of rot clings to the back of his throat.

There are Isaac and Erica, standing by the door, screaming over each other, words overlapping and incomprehensible. Boyd and Derek have a death grip on Jackson, who is dragged inside the floor-to-ceiling mirror inch by agonizing inch.

Stiles stares at the creature; the thing with two endlessly dark holes for eyes, a mouth with too many razor-sharp teeth. Talons for fingers, black nails buried deep in Jackson’s legs. Skin the color of cracked parchment. Its silhouette ripples like molten glass, like it doesn’t belong in this realm despite carving itself a home inside this house.

Jackson’s feet slip into the mirror, despite his trashing. There are black lines on the back of his calves. An infection creeping through Jackson’s veins, just like it infected the house, and Jackson will be eaten alive by it.

Despite Boyd and Derek holding on for dear life.

Isaac jumps into action. He hurtles across the room, grabs Jackson by the belt.

Everyone is screaming as Stiles stands there, locked into place, pinned by the sense that the thing is staring at him despite the pits of darkness where its eyes should be.

The creature is old.

So much older than this house.

Erica rushes forward, bumping into him. It startles him out of his stupor. Blood rushing in his ears, Stiles lunges at the mirror. His grip around the poker is white-knuckled, almost painful as he raises it and smashes it into the mirror. The impact rings out, cutting through Jackson’s panicked screaming, the exhaustion of the pack, before the mirror explodes into a spray of cold shards.

Without warning, the creature disappears. Its screech rattles Stiles to the bones.

Boyd and Derek are flung back by the sudden lack of resistance. They crash to the ground in a heap, Jackson dropping on top of them.

For a few heartbeats, Stiles stares at them. Chest raising and sinking quickly, a sheen of sweat glinting in the light of the ceiling lamp. He watches as the holes in Jackson’s legs close.

Anger churns under his skin. Anger directed at Jackson because he knows, knows, that this didn’t happen because the creature just got bored. His knuckles turn white, and he turns back to the mirror, brings the poker down on it again.

Again.

And again.

Until the mirror is nothing but splinters of glass on the ground and his muscles ache and the anger has dimmed. It hums right underneath his skin, dangerous, yet to be unleashed. He doesn’t turn, stares instead at the broken remains of the mirror — and the shards glare up at him, casting judgment on him.

“Well,” Isaac lets out a weak chuckle, “that looks like many years of bad luck.”

Stiles sucks in a breath.

“Seven,” Boyd informs him.

Stiles breathes out. Anger rising and falling with every breath. This is why he tried to convince Derek to keep doing it alone. Too many people bring risks. They’re impossible to control, and it only needs one fucking idiot.

Clearly, Jackson fills that role.

“What did you do?” Stiles forces himself to sound casual, but his jaw is locked so tight, he doubts his being successful.

“Sorry?” At least Jackson is aware he’s fucked up.

Stiles tears his gaze away from the shards and points the poker at Jackson, sharp end only inches away from his face. “What did you do?” he asks through his teeth.

Gently, Derek wraps his fingers around the poker and pushes it down. His eyes, however, are locked on his beta. “Answer him.”

Jackson sputters, opens his mouth and closes it. A fish out of water. His desire to talk his way out of the whole thing clashes with his need to follow his alpha's command.

“He mocked it.”

Jackson whips around. “Erica! What the hell?”

Raising his brows, Stiles locks eyes with Derek. I told you so, dances on the tip of his tongue.

Derek tugs the poker out of his hands. “You wanted to go looking for it anyway.”

“Oh, don’t even start.” Stiles crosses his arms. “I could’ve drawn it out. Now, it knows we’re looking.”

“So, what do we need to do?” Erica twists a blonde curl around her finger, tugging at it.

Stiles draws in another deep breath, trying to drown his anger with something fresh, calm. “Destroy everything that can cause a reflection.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“But the fridge—”

Stiles stares at Jackson. “If you look at it and see your stupid fucking face, it needs to go.” This will set them back weeks. He crosses the room. “I’ll deal with the vanity.”

“Stiles—“ Derek lifts a hand.

“Nope. No.” Stiles shakes his head for emphasis. Although Derek didn’t do anything, he’s not in the right headspace to be around anyone right now. “Get your pack straight. I’ll take care of this fucking thing.” Next time, he’s going to deal with the supernatural alone again. They can help with the house flipping itself - in fact, having five werewolves do the heavy lifting makes a huge difference in the long run - but getting rid of ghosts, demons, and other paranormal critters will be something he’ll do on his lonesome. No distractions, nobody to worry about, and most importantly, no fucking idiots.

———

The house looms over them in the darkness, windows gaping like open wounds. The air is thick with the scents of leaves and grass and earth, something fresh hiding underneath. 

A gust of wind brings smoke and ash. The scent of melting plastic ruins the fresh night air. All that progress in the last weeks. Gone. Burning in a skip mere feet away from them. It makes the air even heavier, sticking his clothes to his skin.

Somewhere in the distance, the hopeful rumbles of a summer thunderstorm roll closer.

What a perfect way to round out this night.

Stiles scratches Bo behind the ears, watching the reflection of the moon in the dark pool of the vintage mirror; the only thing in thing here that is older than the house itself just like the creature living inside of it. He curls his fingers around the poker, waiting for his time to strike. It might take some time, after all, the demon is very aware of the happenings around him, it’s very aware that Stiles will lure it into a trap. They’re in a stalemate. If it doesn’t appear, Stiles will find a way to trap it for the rest of eternity.

But nothing lasts forever.

“So…” Isaac shifts his weight from one foot to another, glancing around at his packmates. None of them is looking back at him, all staring at their feet. “Are we just going to… twiddle our thumbs?”

Derek shoots him a look.

Isaac ducks his head and clears his throat.

There are a few things that might draw it out regardless. Weakness, strife and hurting its pride. Demons, for one, are very proud creatures. They do not take kindly to insults. Jackson has learned that the hard way.

“What if we put it in cement and send it to the bottom of the ocean?” Erica suggests, crossing her arms, eyes briefly glancing at Stiles then Derek and back to the mirror between them.

Boyd raises his gaze to meet Stiles’. “How do we lure it out?”

Stiles lets out a breath and drags the poker over the surface of the mirror. The shriek of metal against glass makes his teeth ache and the beta’s flinch. Derek’s jaw tightens noticeably, the only response to the sound.

As well as Stiles’ behavior. It’s petty, he’s aware, but part of him can’t help himself. After all, it is their fault they’re in this position in the first place. He drags it over the mirror again, agonizingly slow, hoping that it serves more than one purpose.

But the surface stays undisturbed.

Jackson winces.

Derek places a hand on the nape of Stiles’ neck, both in warning and as an attempt to ground him.

“I’m sure we’re going to laugh about this in a few weeks,” Erica says, once again tugging at the curl wrapped around her finger. Her gaze darts from the mirror to Stiles. She lingers on him, eyes growing a little wider as she takes in his silence. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, and it drops off her face when she turns to look at her boyfriend.

Boyd nods slowly and wraps an arm around her, pulling her close.

“Oh yeah,” Jackson drawls, crossing his arms over his chest, “real funny. Ha Ha.”

Something else mixes in with the pungent smell of melting plastic. Sweeter. Sharper.

Angrier.

The surface of the mirror seems to ripple, just for a second.

Biting back a smile, Stiles drags the poker once more across the flat surface. This time, he uses enough force to leave a thin white scratch.

Derek’s fingers twitch around the nape of his neck. Not tightening necessarily, but with the desire to.

“Yes,” Isaac agrees. “It’s about the memories we’ve made together, right?”

Jackson whips his head around. “I could've died!”

“That’s going to be my fondest memory.” Stiles smiles, cocks his head slightly.

The moon’s reflection vanishes. A blink, and it’s back again. 

“You-“ Jackson’s anger overpowers the stench of the plastic. A second. Another. He lunges forward — and is brought to a cold stop by Derek’s hand around his throat, a warning growl nearly drowning in the rumbles of thunder in the distance.

Jackson’s legs dangle over the mirror.

Stiles looks up, smirking, and is met with burning yellow eyes and sharp fangs; a werewolf struggling against his alpha’s hold.

A perfect treat, dangling over a pool of hungry sharks.

Bo jumps to his feet, growling and barking and—

Stiles brings the poker down. The squelch is all but nauseating as the iron sinks deeper into its white flesh. Something sour and putrid taints the fresh air as the things starts sizzling, burning from the inside out. Heat swells, stripping the early morning of everything fresh and clean.

Derek yanks Jackson away. The rest of the pack takes a step back, watching in horror, noses covered, as the demon rots and rots until there’s nothing left but the poker stuck inside the mirror.

A raindrop hits the broken glass, innocently glinting back at the stars.

Stiles yanks the poker out then brings it back down. Once. Twice. Three times. Until this mirror, too, is nothing but a pile tiny shards staring back at the sky with hundreds of little moons slowly vanishing behind the clouds.

The air remains tainted, stench clinging to his clothes and skin, and if asked, he’d swear, it’s clogging his pores. He’s desperate for the thunderstorm to scrub it off him.

“Damn,” Isaac mutters.

Boyd looks at Stiles, gaze searching.

“That was anticlimactic,” Erica notes, finally releasing her hair.

Stiles lets out a breath. “Consider yourself lucky.”

Derek drops his beta back onto his feet. “Jackson will pay for everything.”

Although Jackson whips around to stare at his alpha, he has the right idea not to argue. Impressive, really.

Stiles didn’t expect that of him. Then again, he doesn’t expect much of people who consider it a bright idea to fuck around with demons. “It’s not about the money, Derek. I don’t have the time to play babysitter while getting rid of the devil’s freaky spawns.” He’s lost people before. Naive owners that wanted to stick around, watch him do the work, give him pointers — that was before Stiles decided that he’d work better alone.

“Jackson,” Derek repeats, and something in his tone catches Stiles’ attention, “will pay for everything.”

“Just... make sure this won’t happen again. Or I will.” Stiles doesn’t want to argue with Derek, doesn’t even want to put them in this situations. But they’ve had this discussion. Many times.

Jackson scoffs. “And who made you the alpha?”

There it is.

Stiles’ role in all of this; the fine line of partner and something, of member of the Hale pack that’s not part of the hierarchy between alpha and beta. Stiles hovers at the edge of it. A trusted member of the pack, yet a fox, a lover, a part they’re not entirely sure where to put, settling somewhere between alpha and beta and nowhere in-between.

Erica, Boyd, and Isaac exchange a glance. All three of them look like they'd rather continue dealing with the creature of hell than be part of this particular conversation.

And yet, here they are.

In the exact situation Stiles wanted to avoid.

“Just... deal with it, please.” Stiles steps away from the mirror, pressed the poker against Derek’s chest for him to grab. “I’ll go for a walk. Any special wishes for breakfast?” Since they can’t use the stove any longer, and it’s nearing the morning hours anyway, he might as well grab something from a diner or a bakery somewhere.

“Waffles?” It sounds more like an offer than a request.

“Sure.” Stiles glances at the others but they merely nod.

Waffles it is then.

“Bo, come on.” Stiles presses a kiss to Derek’s cheek as Bo jumps to his heel and follows him with his head raised, almost as if to prove that he knows exactly how to behave. Stiles scratches him behind the ears, smiling softly down at him.

———

After a relatively calm breakfast, during which Jackson tried his very best to be overly polite, and a long nap, Stiles pads down into the kitchen. He grabs a warm bottle of water and goes looking for the pack. It’s awfully quiet. Not even Bo bounds out of the corner to greet him.

He finds Derek in the garden eventually. Bo following him around dutifully dragging off whatever Derek hands him. Surely, he’d be faster to do everything alone, but Bo seems delighted to be included in bringing what seems to be window frames to the skip.

Leaning against door frame, Stiles watches Derek work. Shirtless, sweat glistening in the sun. The scent of wood and suncream dance on the warm midday’s air. Nothing but memory reminds him of the thunderstorm hours ago. The sun dried out every last drop of rain.

Yet, watching a sun-kissed Derek work, he finds it hard to complain.

Bo drops the frame at Derek’s feet, waving his tail excitedly. A second later, his ears perk up and he spins around, barking delightfully as he sprints over to Stiles.

Smiling, he crouches down and catches the whirlwind, running his fingers through the soft fur.

Soft steps signal Derek’ approach as well. Stiles looks up, smirking. “Oh, please. Don’t stop on my account.”

Laughing, Derek bends down to kiss him. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Good.” Stiles smiles, offering Derek the bottle of water. “It’s awfully quiet. What are the others up to?”

Without any comment, Derek offers Stiles his phone. When he enters the pass code, it opens at once on a chat with Jackson. An onslaught of pictures of mirrors, fridges, electric stoves, and a variety of kitchen appliances jump out at him. The sea of pictures is broken up by pleas to help and “do you think Stiles will like this?” and Derek’s one-word replies.

Stiles snorts out a laugh. “You’re torturing him.”

“Boyd asked me to stop.”

“The voice of reason.” Stiles takes the offered bottle and takes a sip. “Will you?”

Derek merely shrugs.

They move to the edge of the patio and sit down. Bo props his head on Stiles’ thighs despite the sun’s attempts of roasting them alive. Stiles keeps caressing him, closing his eyes.

“You know why he did it, right?”

Stiles squints at Derek, more because of the sun than the question. “What?”

“You know why Jackson antagonized you?” Derek raises his brows.

“Because he’s a prick?” Stiles never lost any sleep over Jackson’s behavior, especially since it’s only ever been him. He’s gotten along well with the others from the very beginning despite his nature. So, he doubts it’s because of the part Nogitsune left behind.

Derek chuckles. “Jackson is the first beta I turned. He’s given everyone a hard time.”

“So,” Stiles concludes, “he is a prick.”

This time, Derek gives him a look, fond, yet exhausted.

Stiles raises a hand in surrender. “Okay, what’s the issue then? I don’t speak werewolf like the rest of you.”

Derek leans back onto his elbows. “It’s not unusual for first betas to show issues with new pack members.”

“Why?”

“Their position in the pack is threatened. Or so they think.”

Stiles lets out a breath. “You want me to be nicer?”

“I want you to know it’s not personal.”

“That’s good to know.” Stiles scratches Bo behind his ears, watches as his eyes flutter shut and he yawns. “Still, if he can’t get it under control, I can’t-“ His voice does this annoying little crack, and he swallows around the anger and frustration threatening to bubble up again. “He won’t join us a second time. I don’t, I can’t worry about him on top of everything else.” There’s a reason he trained Bo to dip the second things go haywire. He needs to focus. Worrying about someone distracts him, and that’s what causes him to make the worst type of mistakes.

Sitting back up, Derek runs his fingers through Bo’s fur then captures Stiles’ hand, kisses his fingers. His lips are soft, gentle, and he locks eyes with Stiles. The gentleness in them all but kills him. “Good,” he whispers, running his lips over Stiles’ knuckles, “because I don’t want you to do this alone. I want to do this with you, so do the others.”

Stiles bites the inside of his cheek.

“If you’ll have us.”

“How could I say no to that?” Stiles intertwines their fingers.

Derek smiles and kisses him.

Yeah, saying no? Absolutely impossible.

[usermischief]

Steo Prompt Request:

When Character A turns up at his rivals's door to yell at him, but Character B has a fever and mistakes him for a dream, then when Character A checks his temperature Character B leans into his hand, covering it with his own and says, "Stay ... You never stay."

a/n: sorry, it took me a hot second to write this. I hope you like it. And thank you so much for the prompt! 💖

~~~

“Theo, I swear to— fuck.”  Stiles bangs his fist against the door once more for good measure.  

Three rooms down, a door swings open. Out pops the disheveled head of Donovan, Theo’s feral frat brother. He’s still sporting a black eye from the lacrosse ball Kira not-so-accidentally chucked at his face after one too many stupid comments on Stiles’ behalf. 

Stiles pins him with a glare. “You want another one of those?” 

Donovan opens his mouth, ready to argue, then purses his lips. A variety of emotions crosses his features — too fast for Stiles to decipher, but most likely none of them good. He probably still has a lot to say about yesterday's humiliation, but he slams the door shut instead. Surprising, albeit better this way. There is no way this would’ve been resolved peacefully with how pissed Stiles is at Theo, who still hasn’t opened is fucking door.  

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles whips around again, glaring at the immovable object. He could break into Theo’s room easily enough, but even Stiles has enough decency not to do that — especially if he’s running the risk of watching Tracy lounge in Theo’s bed. Naked, probably. He scrunches up his face. 

This really needs to stop. 

“Theo!” Stiles bellows once more, ignoring someone else yelling at him. He doesn’t care. Not at all. They’re lucky he waited until 6 am because he would’ve been ready to strangle Theo at 3 am too. Maybe he should’ve done it. It is entirely possible Theo’s door would have been open at that time.  

Fine.

He’s going to get into this room one way or another. 

Before he’s got the chance to move away, however, the lock clicks and the door creeps open. 

Theo looks, for the lack of a better word, terrible. His skin is pale, his eyes glossy, and he leans heavily on the door, almost like his legs won’t be able to support him for very long. He blinks at him, slowly, and leans towards Stiles for a moment before swaying back. It takes everything in him not to grab Theo before he falls on his ass. Come to think of it, Theo wasn’t really himself yesterday. Usually, he is the one to step in when Donovan takes it too far. Yesterday, however, Kira ended the argument.

Maybe that’s why.  

All of Stiles’ anger evaporates at once. That would certainly explain Theo’s weird text message. ‘Can you stop looking at me like you hate me?’. Sure, that text message could’ve been sent to him by accident – except Theo doesn’t make accidents like that. He lets out a breath and reaches for Theo’s face. His pink cheeks are already telling Stiles everything he needs to know, yet he’d rather make sure.  

Carefully, he brushes his fingertips over Theo’s forehead. It’s slick with sweat, and strands of hair cling to it. Stiles barely resists the urge to run his fingers through Theo’s hair. All the feelings he’s buried deep, deep threaten to spill out at once. Stiles grinds his teeth, forcing himself to swallow each and every single one of them, and puts the back of his hand against Theo’s forehead instead.  

As expected, he’s burning up. 

Theo makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and grabs Stiles’ hand, keeping it pressed against his skin – almost as if it helped him cool down somehow. “Stay,” Theo mutters, eyes closed. “You never stay.”

Stiles opens his mouth, ready for a scalding remark. The words, however, get stuck somewhere just underneath his jaw, refusing to roll over his tongue. He can’t even bring himself to pull his hand away. After all, Theo isn’t wrong. Stiles never stays, but Theo was the one who left. Sure, Theo was ten and didn’t exactly have much of a say in his parents’ plan, and while not living in the same city hurt like hell, what broke Stiles was the radio silence. Theo simply up and vanished as if he never even existed in the first place. 

And then he returned, acted like nothing ever happened, like he didn’t break little Stiles’ heart. 

“Please.”

It’s breaking all over again, just for an entirely different reason. “Okay,” Stiles whispers, allowing Theo to drag him into his bedroom. If Stiles is entirely honest, he’s doubts Theo has been fully aware of what’s happening around him. Considering he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow, Stiles wonders if he's even been fully awake at all. He drags the blanket over Theo’s sleeping form and turns away. Leaving would be the right thing to do. Theo probably didn’t mean for him to stay. Maybe he couldn’t even tell who was standing in front of him.  

Nevertheless, he can’t bring himself to leave. Growing up with a sick mother made Stiles hesitant of leaving sick people unattended. Most of the time, he is overreacting. Still, Theo seems completely out of it, and a high fever could turn bad quickly – and Stiles doubts Donovan is going to take care of Theo, or anyone here, really. The people Stiles would consider Theo’s friends aren’t part of this fraternity. Stiles would like to believe that not even Theo would be here if not for his father’s insistence on keeping up appearances. 

Or maybe he’s just hoping that’s the case. After all, Stiles hasn’t seen Theo for eight years. 

Sighing, Stiles strolls through Theo’s room. It’s clean, almost sterile, with white walls and no personal belongings aside from the stuff related to his studies. When Theo was a kid, his bedroom was full off clutter, little league trophies, pictures of his friends and sister, books and DVDs, clothes, and half-finished paintings. His bedroom used to be lived in. Now, everything’s at its designated spot and the room feels as if someone sucked out all its life. 

No thanks to Mrs. Raeken’s influence. 

He is still snooping quietly, flipping through books, opening drawers – when else would he have the chance, right? Maybe he can find something to kick Theo out of the lacrosse team. The guy loathed lacrosse when he was younger. Besides, he’s also on the football team. If he quit lacrosse, his coach would make him captain at once – and who wouldn’t want to be captain of the football team? It comes with glory and lots of sex.

Then again, Theo can probably get his dick wet whenever he wants.

Stiles grimaces at the thought, hating that he immediately thinks of Tracy. It’s hard to tell how Theo feels about her, but Tracy is head over heels. Just thinking about it makes Stiles’ clench his teeth. His stomach hardens. He hates her. Irrationally so, he’s fully aware of that. They’ve met twice at parties, and all Tracy did was hang onto Theo’s arm as if she turns into dust the second, she lets go. If only she weren’t so fucking pretty with her long brown hair and perfect figure. Then again, she’s not particularly smart. Kira mentioned she’s failing a few of her classes because she struggles with the general coursework and is more interested in everything that’s not her studies. That’s a big fat minus in Theo’s book. If he took anything to heart his parents drilled into him from a young age, it’s that a good education, determination, and the pursuit of a goal are extremely important.

Even if they were in any form of relationship now, it would never last. Theo would never settle down with someone like her. He’d be more interested in someone like-

Stiles gives his head a shake.

Nope. Not going down that road.

It’s probably a good idea to get his mind off Theo for a while. He spent so much time snooping; the sun is already setting.

Scrunching up his face, Stiles sits down at Theo’s desk and drags the laptop towards him. It’s a long shot, really, but his passwords for everything used to be his nickname for his sister and Theo’s grandmother’s birthday. Knowing his luck, it might be a different one now. Still, it’s worth a shot if he doesn’t want to end up spiraling until Theo wakes up again. He opens the laptop up, trying to remember Grandma Raeken’s birthday, when the background picture causes his heart to skip a beat. 

Oh.

Staring back at him are Tara, with the biggest and proudest grin on her face, ruffling her little brother’s hair. Theo is mid-movement to put his Little League cap back on, scowling up at his sister. Then there is Stiles himself, just nine-years old, Little League trophy clutched in his hands, doubling over laughing. 

This very moment happened exactly two months before the Raeken’s move, and six months before Tara’s death. She looked so incredibly happy here. 

“I hated it when she did that.”

Stiles jolts and slams the laptop shut, wincing a little at the sound of the impact. “You’re awake,” he says and pushes his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. Although Theo doesn’t look much better, the additional couple hours of sleep he’s gotten seemed to have cleared his head. His eyes look a lot more focused now; their intense stare rooting him to the spot on his chair.

“You’re here.” Theo’s tone is even, calm. His eyes narrow slightly, assessing the situation as his gaze flicks from Stiles to the laptop and back again, now focused on Stiles’ hand as he makes a dismissive gesture. “I didn’t think you were actually here.”

Furrowing his brows, Stiles lowers his hands into his lap. “You thought I was a fever dream?” Stiles quirks a brow. If that’s the case, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to get Theo to a hospital to get checked out. Now, however, he seems a lot more awake and aware of everything going on around him. “Is that why you sent me that stupid text?” Because that is why he’s here. Not to take care of Theo. Not to drive him to a doctor. He’s here because Theo has the fucking audacity to act offended by Stiles’ glaring at him.

Theo visibly winces and turns to look out the window. “That’s why you’re here.”

“You know,” Stiles says, getting to his feet with a shake of his head, “if you didn’t constantly try to upstage me in everything I do, I wouldn’t look at you like that.”

“Upstaging you?” Theo stares at him again, brows raised in utter confusion. “I’m not upstaging you.”

Stiles huffs out a breath and sits down again. That’s just ridiculous. Theo is and always has been one of the most competitive people in the world. He wants, no, he needs to be on top. Always and in absolutely everything he’s doing. While in the few classes they’re sharing, Stiles remains to be the winner – although Theo is very close behind – there’s nothing he can do in Lacrosse. Theo came in, rained on his parade, and too his spot as Co-Captain from him with no issue at all. That’s absolutely no cause for concern regarding his scholarship, it was still a nice feeling after his shitty high school experience. Plus, it’s Theo. Who hates lacrosse. Who is already co-captain of the football team. Who is just pissed that Stiles hasn’t welcomed him back with open arms.

“I’m just trying-“ Theo stops himself, pressing his lips together. “We used to be best friends.”

“And then you fucked off and acted like I didn’t even exist,” Stiles whispers.

Closing his eyes, Theo sinks back into his pillows. “I thought it was easier to lose you all at once than over time.” The words are sharper than any knife could ever be. It's a talent Theo has always possessed. Looks like he’s got the chance to refine it over the years.

Stiles isn’t any less successful in hitting where it hurts, but the words took all of his fight away in one foul swoop. He presses his hands together and stares at the ground. “Why’d you never—” but Stiles cuts himself off with a wince. How could Theo have ever said anything at all? Stiles made sure to flee the scene as quickly as possible whenever he appeared.

You never stay.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he gets up from the chair and crosses the room. Stiles kicks off his shoes without hesitation. It’s either now or never; if he doesn’t stay this time, Theo is not going to give him another chance, not when he’s opening the door this wide.

Theo draws his brows together. “What are you doing?”

Stiles tosses his jacket over the chair. “I’m staying,” he says resolutely, briefly glancing at Theo before he climbs over him and settles next to his head.

“Stiles, I’m sick.”

“Yeah, well…” Stiles doesn’t really have anything to say to that. Staying now most definitely will only make him sick as well, but he’d rather get sick than lose Theo like that again. “Just sleep,” he whispers, gently tugging the blanket up over Theo’s shoulders. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Theo raises his brows, and his eyes roam over his features almost as if he’s trying to catch him in a lie. Then he smiles. “Okay,” Theo whispers and closes his eyes, settling into a comfortable position next to him.

Despite knowing better, Stiles runs his fingers through Theo’s short stands. It would be best for him to ignore the way his heart rejoices at the way Theo smiles because of this simple touch. Stiles closes his eyes and leans his head back. He’s fucked. He’s so thoroughly fucked.

Stiles glances down at Theo again, unable to hide his smile this time.

Unless… maybe he’s not.

[usermischief]

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Warnings: — ♚ Words: 907 ♚ Dialogue Prompt: “You're right.” - "I know... about what?" ♚ Mini Fic Roulette: 33/∞

---

Rolling over in the middle of the night to find one side of their bed empty is not unusual, yet Stiles still sits upright with panic when he notices Derek’s absence. Because Derek isn’t the one who leaves the bed in the middle of the night. He is the one who shuffles into the living room or the office to try and coax Stiles back to bed. That’s how their nights are, that’s their routine. Changes from the routine are never a good sign. 

Stiles rubs his eyes, listening to the silence of the night. At first, he doesn’t hear anything other than his heart pounding in his chest then he catches the soft murmur of voices. Derek watching TV in the middle of the night is almost more unnerving than the prospect of someone breaking into their apartment which is probably saying a lot something about him. However, it’s hard to be scared of criminals while living under the same roof as an alpha werewolf. 

Huffing out a breath, Stiles rolls out of bed. Even after years of being together, having to coax Derek back to bed is still very much unchartered territory. But on the rare occasions it happens, Stiles at the very least has an inkling as to what’s going on. Today, however, he has no clue what could possibly keep Derek up at night. There are no monsters causing mayhem in Beacon Hills. Nobody in the pack is in any sort of danger. Everything should be fine. 

But apparently not. 

Stiles tiptoes out of their bedroom and down the short hallway towards the voices coming from the TV. By the sound of it, Derek put on a rerun of Friends. He pushes the door open, not entirely sure what to expect — and he sure didn’t think he’d find a wolf curled up on the couch. “Derek, seriously.” Annoyed, Stiles flicks on the lights in the open-plan kitchen. “Get your filthy paws off my furniture.”

Derek’s ears flick in his direction. He doesn’t move immediately but decides to follow the command after a few seconds of contemplation. Judging by the way he stretches languidly, it seems like he doesn’t have a care in the world. 

If Stiles has woken up in an empty bed for nothing, he’s going to be pissed. He grabs the sweatpants from the backrest of the armchair and tosses them at Derek. “Unwolf and explain yourself, Mister.” His least favorite past-time is forcing his fiance to talk to him about feelings. No matter how long they’re going to be together, Stiles doubts Derek will ever be able to communicate freely about the shit that bothering him. So, occasionally Stiles has to get a little mean to make Derek open up. Cuddles can come after. 

The enormous wolf makes a sound akin to a huff. However, he shifts back into a human — not without a disgruntled rumble though. He still cooperated a lot faster than Stiles expected. Nothing would’ve stopped him from simply staring him down as a wolf, looking adorable as hell. Well, nothing but the knowledge that not even Derek, as emotionally constipated as he might be, is able to out-stubborn Stiles. 

“So?” Stiles asks and switches the TV off. “What’s going on?” 

Derek studies him as he slips into his sweatpants, head slightly cocked in a way that’s reminiscent of an animal. It always takes a few moments to leave his wolf behind. He blinks slowly, once then twice, and flares his nostrils just enough to be noticeable; almost as if he’s trying to figure out how mad Stiles really is — and truth be told, he isn’t mad, just a little frustrated that Derek decided to eat his feelings instead of waking him up. A conclusion his dear fiance clearly came to as well because his shoulders slump and he crosses the distance between them. “You’re right,” he says almost reluctantly before pulling Stiles into a hug. 

“I know.” The response is more instinct than anything else. After all, when is he wrong? Stiles wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and squints at him. “About what?” 

“Peter doesn’t have an emergency.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “She’s not going to eat you alive.” His grandmother has always been more bark than bite, but since Stiles is her favorite grandchild, she might be a little bit overprotective. 

“I’m not sure about that,” Derek mutters, and he looks genuinely worried. 

It takes everything in him not to bring Red Riding Hood into this conversation. “Babcia knows you make me happy,” Stiles reminds him, wrapping his arms tightly around Derek’s middle, and pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “That’s all she needs to know to approve of our marriage.”  

Derek doesn’t reply immediately, instead, he leans back a little and studies Stiles’ face again. “Am I?” 

“What?” Stiles raises his brows. 

“Am I making you happy?” That question could’ve only come from Derek. They’re engaged, about to be married in three months, and have lived together for the last four years. Still, he questions whether or not Stiles is happy, as if he’s the one burying his emotions under abs of steel. 

After kissing Derek once again, Stiles leans back and sighs. “That depends.” His attempt at keeping his face straight fails almost immediately. He grins slightly and cups Derek’s face. “Are you coming to bed?” 

Laughing softly, Derek hoists him into his arms and carries him back to the bedroom.

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo

♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken

♞Tags: wedding, getting back together, future fic

♞Words: 2047

Sitting on the steps at the front of the church, arms loosely crossed over his thighs and phone in his hand, Theo is the very definition of bored. Something you very much should not be on the day you tie the knot with the person you claim to be your soulmate. Not that those exact words have ever left Theo’s mouth. Those have only ever rolled over Tracy’s tongue. She’s always believed that this day would come, even during the time Theo dated Stiles. It’s hard to blame her. Theo is like a drug. Once hooked, it’s impossible to get clean.

That Stiles has managed to stay away from five years seems like a miracle. Yet, he’s here on the off-chance that Theo still feels the way for him he’s used to do – even though Stiles was the one who walked away. They were passionate, and Stiles still can’t begin to put into words how he feels about Theo, but they were explosive, more so once their respective careers took off. Theo Raeken, one of the best receivers seen in generations, and Stiles Stilinski, an up-and-coming actor people throw blank checks at, so he’d be in their movies or TV shows.

They were volatile, but they made sense.

They never made their relationship a secret, but they were private – too private for the media, who decided to spin their own stories. Stiles too the brunt of that. A new rumored romance at least once a month. Interview questions from journalist. Stiles reaffirming that he’s still dating Theo but refusing to give any further comments. A lot of people online kept coming to his defense, giving the media the engagement it so desperately craved, and the cycle went on and on.

Even when Stiles stopped commenting at all as his relationship crumbled behind the scenes, nothing changed. Theo’s possessive streak has been an issue from the beginning. It was manageable. Easy to handle. The constant onslaught of rumors, however, caused it to fly off the handle. After multiple near misses, Stiles decided to leave before they both explode and so or say something they cannot come back from.

The world learned of their break-up because Tracy posted pictures of herself and Theo everywhere.

Stiles, in return, fucked more people than he can count. He became who the media told him he is. Funny, really, that out of the two of them Stiles turned into a fuckboy.

And now he’s hiding in the last row of a church Theo never wanted to get married in. He knew about the wedding long before Josh and Corey popped up on his doorstep. Tracy announced it the very day of their engagement. Of Corey and Josh hadn’t continuously insisted, Stiles wouldn’t be doing this. He wouldn’t be here, putting his heart – and pride – on the line in front of too many strangers and at least twenty invited paparazzi, waiting outside the church, and, in turn, the whole fucking world. If Theo’s closest friends are right, all Stiles has to do is get up, be seen, and Theo would drop everything to take him back no questions asked. But Stiles knows he can only ask this of Theo if he’s sure they work out, if he wants to stay with him, knowing and accepting every part of Theo.

Only then can he allow Theo to uproot his life.

The longer Stiles waits, the worse it will get for Tracy too. Not that she would’ve cared. She tried to get with Theo every chance she got. Still, Stiles wonders what would feel worse, waiting until the officiant asks him to speak – and what if he freezes? – or ripping the band aid off and stop the ceremony from even starting.

Shifting on the pew, Stiles lets out a breath and allows himself to look away from Theo at the front of the church and glances at Josh and Corey, looking around as if waiting for something – someone. He had ample time to call Theo before today, to stop all of this from even happening.

He didn’t.

Is that answer enough?

His heart aches.

Stiles can’t let Theo do this. He can’t bring himself to miss what might be his very last chance.

Stiles takes another deep breath, taking in the guests in their expensive dresses and suits. He blocks out their chatter, the laughter, the good mood he’s about to drop a bomb on. All he has to do is get up and out of the dark corner he’s been hiding in, to step into the aisle. The moment he does, people will notice. Theo will see him. It feels like a small miracle nobody has until now. Stiles half expected Tracy had handed out flyers with his face on them to make sure he won’t ruin anything.

However, that’s exactly what he’s about to do.

Stiles cannot wait a second longer. He doesn’t know when the ceremony is about to start. He takes a steadying breath and slips out of the pew.

Theo people closest to him glance up. Although Stiles keeps his face angled away from them, he can tell the moment they’ve recognized him. There’s a shift in the air. Their quiet conversation turns into urgent whispers. It’s not hard to imagine how they’re trying to tell people in front of them. A doomed game of telephone that won’t reach Tracy in time. If someone tries to stop him, Theo will notice.

Stiles has made a decision.

For the first time in five years, he can finally breathe again.

Let’s see how long that lasts. His heartbeat picks up the closer he gets to the aisle. Every second, every step brings him closer to the moment Theo will spot him. The whispers seem to get louder around him, echoing in the church as the conversations die around him. Do they know who he is to Theo? Are thy aware of their history? Their feelings? Can they guess why Stiles is here? If they do, they-

Who cares?

Stiles isn’t here because of them. He’s here for Theo. He glances in his direction, watches as Theo scrolls on his phone, running a hand through his hair. It’s longer now, the way he wears it during off-season. It suits him. To be honest, Stiles likes it best on him, even more so when he’s sporting a designer stubble. Sadly, Tracy made sure that today will be stubble free.

His fingers tremble, and he curls his hands into fists then pushes them into his pants, unsure what to do with them. He can hardly wave at Theo. Should he wave at Theo?

No.

The inside of the church tips. On the left side, the conversations have grown silent. The right side has yet to realize something’s amiss.

Swallowing, Stiles glances back to the front at the same time Josh elbows Corey and points at him. The other groomsmen turn to look as well. Tara, who has been standing a little of to the side, widens her eyes. She smiles, contrasting the look of horror on the bridesmaids’ faces. One of them, presumably the maid of honor, breaks away from the group, her light blue dress fluttering after her. Every click of her heels is a gunshot going off inside.

The sound halts more conversations and catches Theo’s attention. Finally, he looks up from his phone. “What,” he asks, his tone cold and laces with annoyance as he studies the other bridesmaids, “is the issue now?”

None of the girls offer a reply.

Josh bounces over and taps Theo’s shoulder, whispering something in his ear.

Stiles steps into the aisle. He cannot bring himself to look away from Theo for even a second. So, he sees it all – the way Theo’s lips part, his eyes widening as they search for him in the mass of people, how they light up with a smile when he finally finds him, standing out like a sore thumb in his white dress shirt and black slacks. To tie. No jacket. But sneakers. Casual. Low key. The way they imagined their weddings to be on the few occasions they’ve talked about it.  

The phone slips from Theo’s fingers. The crack of it hitting the ground is followed by deafening silence. Nobody utters a single word as Theo is moving. Towards him.

“Theodore!” Mrs. Raeken’s voice cuts into the silence. Her eyes narrowed. The dark green dress probably the most expensive in the whole church.

Stiles didn’t miss her, and he’s sure, that feeling is reciprocated.

Theo doesn’t stop. Instead, he fidgets with his hand halfway down the aisle. He doesn’t run, and Stiles never expected him to. Just as Theo most likely didn’t expect Stiles to meet him halfway or jump into his arms. That’s not who they are.

Stiles’ heart hammers in his chest as he watches Theo approach, as he sees nobody else moving. It’s like the world around them has frozen, like it stopped turning for everyone but them.

And then Theo drops this engagement ring causing the church to erupt.

But Theo simply grabs Stiles’ waist and presses him against the wall, startling a laugh of out Stiles – one Theo steals from his lips as he crashes their mouths together. Their bodies fit together like they used to, like nothing has changed, and Stiles’ heart slows as its missing piece has returned. There is no question about this, about them. The world narrows around them until they’re the only people to exist. Theo kisses him like a starving person, lips and tongue and teeth, and Stiles pulls him closer by the collar of his jacket.

He's returned home after years and years of self-imposed exile.

“Get a room,” Tara mutters. Stiles can’t tell if it’s her voice or the hurried clicking of heels that pulled them apart.

“Let’s go, boys!” Josh drums his hands on Theo’s shoulders before following Corey and Tara out, hollering, “let’s go. Let’s go!”

Chuckling, Theo looks up at Stiles. His features soften for a moment, and he cups Stiles’ cheeks. “You ready?”

Stiles hums. “Waiting on you.” Truth is, he’s not ready to face the real world. He knows what happens once they leave. The questions. The pictures. The media shitstorm that Lydia will hate him for. But for Theo, he’s quite willing to risk it all. So, he intertwines their fingers and squeezes his hand.   

Theo pulls him along, leaving the church without sparing a single glance back.

Stiles does, however, and he looks past everyone else, finding Tracy’s eyes at once. She’s not crying, not screaming, not furiously making her way towards them. Her eyes narrow slightly as she raises her chin. She doesn’t seem surprised, just determined to keep her composure in check.

Someone calls Theo’s name, but he’s already pushing the doors open. He squeezes his hand once more and forces Stiles’ attention back to the reality in front of him – a shitton of cameras flashing, pointed at them, and a barraged of questions hurled in their general direction. Between them and the paparazzi, a black SUV with Corey hanging out of on of the windows.

“Come on!”

They hurry down the stars. The backdoor flies open and Corey scoots to the other side of the backseat.

Theo ushers Stiles in first then slams the door shut once he sits down himself, hand still holding on to Stiles’. “Step on it.”

Tara gives him a thumbs up.

A few moments later, they’re in the street, heading towards a destination Stiles doesn’t care much about as long as he reaches it with Theo by his side, who turns to look at him, cocked eyebrow and smirk firmly on his lips. “What took you so long?”

Stiles huffs out a breath. “Don’t even try to pin this on me, Raeken.”

“I swear,” Tara says before her brother has the chance to say anything, “if you start arguing, I will turn this car around.”

Theo barks out a laugh.

Chuckling softly, Stiles sins deeper into the middle seat and leans his head against Theo’s shoulder. He glances at Tara, watching her brother in the rearview mirror, eyes bright, slightly crinkled as her smile widens. Stiles squeezes Theo’s hand again, promising himself to hold onto him for the rest of their lives.

[usermischief]

♚ Pairing: Sterek ♚ Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Peter Hale, Nolan Holloway ♚ Tags: established relationship, 6b AU ♚ Words: 1014 ♚ Prompt: “If someone gets nosy, just, you know, shoot them." - "Shoot them?" - "Politely.” ♚ Mini Fic Roulette: 36/∞ 

⤚⁂↝♚↜⁂⤙

Nolan looks more than terrified, and judging by his track record, this is bound to blow up in his face. But they’ve made it this far, so Stiles hands him the crossbow again. Nolan knows exactly what’s going to happen in case he stabs him in the back now, so Stiles isn’t particularly worried about him. It’s the rest of his plan that might’ve been a bad decision. That, however, is a problem for future Stiles. Present Stiles finds himself with only a door separating him and Derek. One. If Nolan fucks this up, there will be hell to pay. “If someone gets nosy, just…” Stiles trails off for a moment, not sure what to say because Nolan won’t be able to talk himself out of anything — not when he perpetually looks like a deer in headlights. “You know… shoot them.” Stiles gives the crossbow a little pat.

Widening his eyes, Nolan stares back at him. “Shoot them?”

“Politely.” Giving him the thumbs up, Stiles pushes the door open and slips into the vast darkness behind it. They’re a bit on a time crunch, so there isn’t a time for a pep talk. Luckily, Stiles isn’t stopped by any locked doors. The hunters don’t think it’s necessary since they secured everything with mountain ash. They’re idiots, all of them, and it reeks of desperation on Gerard’s part to find recruits via fear mongering. If only they knew werewolves aren’t what they should be most afraid of. Then again, Stiles probably should be thankful. After all, this gave him a very easy in — after his dad finally informed him that shit hit the fan in Beacon Hills. The staggering number of hunters made it hard for the supernatural community, Stiles, however, had a very easy time to get in without rousing any suspicious.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Stiles can hear a faint growl in the seemingly endless darkness of the warehouse. “Keep growling at me, and I’ll leave your sorry ass here.” Stiles flicks the lights, raising his brows as he finds not only Derek but also Peter chained to an electric fence. “I cannot believe this,” he mutters more to himself than anyone in particular. How the hell did they manage to capture both Hales?

Stiles jogs towards them, still shaking his head in disbelief. There’s no doubt that Peter somehow dragged his nephew into some shenanigans that caused them to end up here. Judging by Derek’s glower, he’s even less thrilled about Stiles joining the fun. “You’re welcome,” he mutters, turning the electricity off.

“How did you get in here?” Derek asks as he’s breaking the chains holding him in place. When he takes a step, he looks a little unsteady on his feet.

“Gerard is overestimating the intelligence of his hunters.” Stiles shrugs, barely resisting the urge to rush forward and make sure Derek is okay. He’s not the biggest fan of being coddled in front of people, especially not Peter, and Stiles tries to respect that.

Peter looks quite put out by the fact that he’s not only been captured by a ragtag group of hunters, but also that he needed to be saved. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he says with his usual rather unpleasant and knowing smile. It’s like the guy has a sixth scene for Stiles doing something shady.

“Can you go grab Nolan, please?” Raising his brows at Peter, Stiles points over his shoulder. “Careful, though, he’s a bit nervous… and armed with a crossbow. Try not to startle him.” Although he’s pretty sure at this point, everything could startle the poor guy. He’s got no clue how he made it this far without a nervous breakdown.

Peter draws his brows together. “Aren’t we leaving?”

“Not through that door.” Stiles gestures for him to leave before finally crossing the distance between him and Derek, cupping his pale cheeks softly. “Are you okay?”

“Why yes, I am,” Peter calls over his shoulder, “thanks for asking.”

Ignoring not only his uncle’s comment but also Stiles’ question, Derek tilts his head just enough to press a kiss to the ball of his left hand. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Of course.

Stiles rolls his eyes and flicks Derek’s forehead. “I should’ve been here weeks ago.”

“It’s not safe—"

“Nowhere is safe,” Stiles interrupts him curtly. This isn’t a new argument, and it’s probably not the last time they’re having it. His dear boyfriend loves to bring it up. “Not for you, not for me… and this place is going to be especially unsafe in a few minutes.” He runs his finger along Derek’s left eyebrow, drawing his own together.

Sad brow moves into a deep frown. “What did you do?”

“I do not want to interrupt this heartfelt reunion,” Peter says, dragging Nolan after him by the fabric of his jacket, “but there’s a fire outside, and it’s closing in.”

Derek stares at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles shrugs, gesturing around. “Gerard wants his people to be afraid, so, I gave them something to be scared of.” After everything they have done, some of these hunters certainly deserve worse, however, Stiles is not quite the monster the nogitsune was trying to turn him into. But Derek keeps staring at him, and Stiles hates that it doesn’t take anything more for his guilty conscience to appear. As much as he loves Derek, Stiles really did not need yet another Jiminy Cricket in his life. “They’re going to be fine. I started the fire in an abandoned area. No one’s going to get hurt, Care Bear, who do you think I am?” It’s a loaded question, they both know that — and for the first time since they started dating, Stiles is scared of an answer.

Derek doesn’t reply, merely lets out a long breath and nods. His hand finds Stiles’ easily. He intertwines their fingers, squeezing tightly — believing him.

The guilt settles in Stiles’ stomach, making him nauseous. “Let’s go,” he says, glancing over his shoulder and catching Nolan’s eye. Hopefully the kid knows how to take a secret to the grave.

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags: slice of life, alpha!Theo, future fic ♞Words: 1754

ao3

___

The blaring of an alarm startles him awake. His hand grasps at nothing, and he topples to the right. A noise rivalling the sound of the alarm escapes him. His stomach drops like a stone as the ground comes to meet his face at lightning speed – and then it stops moving, or rather, he does when the arm around his waist tightens and pulls him back on the couch.

Fuck.

It’s too early for his heart to pound as hard as it does right now. Holy shit.

The alarm stops, and Stiles sucks in a breath, craning his neck to check outside. It’s still dark. Why the hell did he wake up to an alarm? It’s fucking Sunday.

Wait.

He squints. “What time is it?”

Theo nuzzles the nape of his neck, scruff scratching the sensitive skin. “8 pm.”

Goosebumps spread across his skin. Stiles shudders at the sensation. He honestly wouldn’t mind if Theo kept doing that for the rest of the day, well, night.

Stiles groans. “I was supposed to call dad before work.” It’s a thing they started doing after everything they’ve narrowly survived in Beacon Hills, especially before the nightshifts, and after Stiles left for college. Knowing he’s spoken to his dad in case of a shift gone wrong makes him feel at ease.

“He called,” Theo whispers against his neck, “told me not to wake you up. Apparently, he’s got a full night of paperwork ahead of him.”

Frowning, he shuffles around until he can face Theo without craning his neck. They’re squished together on Stiles’ couch, almost nose to nose now, breathing each other’s air. Only nine months ago, Stiles was willing to throttle Theo on sight. Now, they’re spending almost every night together, and Theo is answering his calls, apparently. It snuck up on him, slow and steady, and sometimes, Stiles still waits for the other shoe to drop.

And then Theo brings Wedel chocolate and Delicje and his favorite butter and salt chips to their movie nights, he cuts out pork on during pack dinner night because Stiles allergic, watches Star Wars and comic adaptions without complaining, and listens to Stiles’ info-dumping on random topics with the patience of a thousand saints. He even makes sure he eats and drinks when he can’t bring himself to stop doing whatever he’s invested in at the moment.

He indulges him.

So much so, that his pack complains about Theo playing favorites.

Theo brushes hair out of Stiles’ forehead, small frown wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows. “what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” He cups his cheek, brushing his thumb over Stiles’ mole.

The crush he has on the guy is already unhealthy enough, all this caring alpha act is going to drive Stiles up the wall. Theo wasn’t supposed to be a good alpha, he was supposed to be the lethal solution to all of his problems. That’s how their relationship of convenience started. Stiles was sick of allowing hunters and monsters to walk away, Theo was willing to dispose of all those problems.

Voila.

Then the feelings came.

And decided to stick around.

Stiles scowls, “you should’ve woken me up anyway.”

“You seemed like you needed sleep.” Theo curls his fingers around his chin and tips his head slightly back. “And you looked soft, like someone I'd ruin with a touch.” He brushes his mouth against Stiles’, more a whisper than a kiss, before pressing his lips to the corner of his mouth. Fucking give him a break. Seriously.

His fingers find Theo’s collar, and he tugs at it, holds him close. “That ship has already sailed, trust me.”

Theo growls, deep and low, a dark rumble in the evening of his apartment; it’s the hottest thing Stiles has ever heard. The grip on his hip turns vice-like as anger and frustration fill the air around them. It’s a warning, a saving grace, the only thing keeping Stiles’ sanity intact while every fiber of his body tells him to take what’s offered.

The is unstable, even more than Stiles himself.

He combs his fingers through Theo’s messy strands instead. “What’s wrong, buttercup?”

Theo curls his lips disapprovingly. Turns out, he’s not a fan of nicknames – even less when used mockingly. But he’s given up pointing that out long ago. So, he sighs instead, a sound only capable of being produced by someone who resigned himself to his fate. “I don’t want to go.”

Stiles runs his fingers up the nape of Theo’s neck. A low heat spreads from his chest to the rest of his body, almost as if his heart is slowly replacing his blood with molten lava. “What do you want instead?” Because, truth be told, as much as this started out as using Theo’s obsession against him, Stiles wouldn’t mind spending every night for the rest of his life just like this; limbs tangled, pressed together as close as possible, and their hearts beating in sync.  

“My teeth,” Theo whispers, brushing his closed mouth over sensitive skin, “in your neck.”

Fucking hell.

Stiles hooks his left leg around Theo’s and pulls him between his legs. “Sexually or violently?”

Another growl fills the silence around them before Theo nips Stiles’ jaw. “You really have to ask?”

Hands wander under Stiles’ shirt, and he shudders, pulling his shoulders up as goosebumps spread all over his body. The power this man has over his body should not be allowed — it wasn’t even planned. But Theo just showed up and turned Stiles’ whole world upside down, and when it comes to the chimera, Stiles is a weak, weak man.

He leans up, brushing their noses together, and presses a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then stay?”

Theo lets out a breath. “I can’t.”

Stiles tries his hardest to keep his disappointment buried. “The duties of an alpha.”

Sighing, Theo sits up. “It’s more about keeping Donovan out of prison.”

“If you ask me—“

“I’m not asking.” Theo grabs Stiles by his shirt and pulls him back onto his lap. It is fascinating that, out of all the issues that could have possibly arrived between them, Donovan is the only one that constantly causes an argument.

Stiles huffs but as he tries to get up, Theo pulls him back down, a hand tightly around his neck. “He tried to eat my legs. Sorry, for still holding a grudge.”

Theo chuckles, dark and strangely enticing. “You’re not sorry.”

“Just saying,” Stiles mutters and scrunches up his face, “I’m not getting him out of prison.” If he’s entirely honest, he’s just waiting for the moment Donovan fucks up royally, and Theo admits that he’s more trouble than he’s worth. Donovan is constantly two seconds away from doing something stupid. All Theo needs to do is let him take the fall for once. Stiles’ dad can’t wait to put him behind bars again either.

This time for good.

“Hence why I need to be there.” His smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but Theo tugs him closer by the nape of his neck regardless, curling his free arm around Stiles’ waist to pull him as close as possible once more. “You could join me,” he whispers pressing short little kisses from the left corner of Stiles’ mouth to his right. It such an intimate gesture, like they’ve known each other for years already, like they’ve known each other all along, and they haven’t just started fucking two months ago.

It would be their first outing as whatever they are, but that’s not the reason Stiles is more than willing to decline that offer. He’s not exactly in the mood to be around people today – aside from Theo, that is. Besides, “so, I’m one stupid comment away from getting my face rearranged?” They both know Stiles wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut, and Donovan wouldn’t be able to control himself – not even for Theo.

Theo narrows his eyes. His grip tightens to a point bordering on pain. “He’d be dead before he touches you.”

“Then maybe I should join you.” Stiles quirks a brow and puts a finger under Theo’s chin, raising his head – fully unimpressed by the red eyes glaring back at him. While it is more than unlikely that Theo will be voted “most-caring alpha” anytime soon, he’s not the biggest fan of jokes about weakening his pack; killing Donovan, unfortunately, means exactly that.

Instead of arguing, Theo huffs out a breath.

“Fine.” Stiles moves off Theo’s lap and flops onto the couch next to him. “Then maybe consider getting him laid. It would do him some good to get rid of all that pent-up up rage.”

Theo narrows his eyes. “I hope you’re not offering.”

“I’d rather make out with a dung beetle than let this guy get anywhere near me, thank you very much.” Stiles gets to his feet, stretching languidly.

Chuckling, Theo wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist and runs his lips along the side of his neck.

A shudder runs down Stiles’ spine. He hates Theo has to leave, and he hates that he hates it so much. If he had any energy left, he’d probably drag himself into the club and play nice just to make sure Tracy isn’t trying to climb Theo like a tree again.

Under normal circumstances, he lives to disappoint, and watching Tracy’s face fall whenever he strolls onto the scene is a special kind of pleasure.

But work has been torturous for the past few weeks. He’s drowning in overtime and doesn’t have any percent left in his social battery. He’d only end up moody and grumpy and be pissed at Theo for agreeing to come along, ruining a perfectly good weekend filled with sex, cuddles and good food.

Not necessarily in that order.

“I’ll come back later,” Theo whispers against his skin. “Just going to get Donovan through the night then I’ll be yours for the weekend.”

Stiles smiles, trying to ignore his heart dancing in excitement. “Sounds promising.”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Theo whispers.

“I’m expecting nothing less.” Stiles closes his eyes, enjoying the last moments before Theo leaves to hang out with his pack. Turns out, he’s gotten embarrassingly attached already. “Make it quick.” Stiles doesn’t like how needy he sounds.

Theo laughs. “I haven’t left and you’re already missing me?”

“Don’t ruin the moment.”

Theo lips curve against the nape of his neck.

Stiles’ heart skips a bit. Yeah, he’s never going to live that down.

[usermischief]

♞Pairing: Steo ♞Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Theo Raeken ♞Tags: kidnapping, secret relationship ♞Words: 3319 ♞Prompt: inspired by "Rude" - Magic! (for @amatchinwater )

ao3

---

with heart in my hand

“Theo?” Stiles hovers his hand over his gun, heart hammering in his chest as the door falls closes with a soft click. Thanks to his job, he’s walked into too many homes that look like a crime scene — he just didn’t expect to walk into his own apartment looking the same. His clothes and other belongings are everywhere, bookshelves completely empty. There are drawers yanked out of dressers. His kitchen cupboards are opened. Someone even went through his pots and pans. The pillows on his couch have been sliced open. His mattress, Stiles realizes, has suffered the same fate as it leans against the railing of his loft, threatening to topple over. His TV is gone, but his laptop is still sitting on the desk on the corner of the room — the only place seemingly untouched.

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles pulls his gun out. “Theo?” He calls again, gaze darting from the closed bathroom door to the loft area. The mattress is blocking his view. Just today he was called to two break-ins, and as high as his adrenaline was during those times, his hands weren’t sweaty, and they certainly weren’t shaking. But this is different. This is his home, his life, and his boyfriend on the line. “Theo!” Even his voice is shaking, and Stiles wants to kick himself for it. Panicking doesn’t help, especially not when the intruders can tell he is.

Stiles carefully steps over a pair of shoes and a lonely boot, gaze darting back and forth between the mattress and the closed bathroom door. He’s not about to get jumped; not by hunters, supernatural assholes, or mundane criminals.

When he can finally see his bedroom area, it’s empty. The drawers have been ripped out of his nightstands. His lamps are on the ground, light bulbs most likely broken. Someone came into this place looking for something, and they were very determined to finding it.

But what?

Stiles doesn’t have anything valuable in his apartment. He’s not stupid enough to keep his supernatural artifact in a place where his colleagues from work are hanging out, sometimes with their nosy toddlers — and no one besides Theo know he’s rented a storage room for it. Unless someone figured it out? But how? And how did they learn where Stiles lives? He’s careful, and he went the extra mile to secure this place with magic.

Witches?

“Theo?” Stiles asks, his heart pumping fear through his body with every beat. Fuck his apartment. He can move. He can replace shit, but if someone dared to touch Theo— Stiles shakes his head. No. Absolutely not. Theo is going to be fine. Maybe he just stepped out to grab some food. He didn’t seem too thrilled about cooking earlier today.

Stepping over books and shoes and a bunch of apples, Stiles slowly makes his way towards his bathroom. The main reason he rented this place is that there are no spaces to hide besides the bathroom. He could shoot first and ask questions later, that is always an option, but if they’re not crouching behind the door like an idiot, all he does is alert everyone on his floor and waste bullets he may later need.

When he passes his desk, his gaze catches on things that are very clearly not his belongings. “What the fuck?” he breathes, his voice eerily loud in the heavy silence of the apartment. Handcuffs — not the fun kind — a gag, and an empty vial of… something. Stiles reaches for it, panic chocking him slowly. He brushes his thumb over the blue letters. Diazepam.

Great.

He’s been running out of nightmare fuel anyway.

The good news is, however, that it wouldn’t do anything to Theo. If someone did inject him with this shit, all they did was make him very angry. Bad news? An overdose will knock him on his ass very quickly.

Stiles drops the vial and aims the gun at his bathroom door again. He should shoot. Waltzing in there is an unnecessary risk. Stiles licks his lips, finger itching to pull the trigger. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he mutters, more to himself than whoever is waiting to jump him behind that door.

Without warning, his apartment is plunged into darkness. Stiles whips around, aiming his gun to where he knows his light switch is. Before he’s even got the chance to shoot, someone crashes into him. The back of his head bounces off the hard wooden flooring. Stiles groans as pain explodes in his skull. The impact sends his gun flying, and by sheer fucking luck, there’s no shot going off.

A cool leather glove his covering his mouth as a needle sinks into his neck.

The pain barely registers, but the panic snaps him out of his haze. One minute. Stiles remembers everything he read on Diazepam during a case he worked two months ago. This shit is going to work in one to three minutes. Barely enough time to fight them off and get away. But Stiles isn’t going to give up.

He moves his left hand, inch by inch, feeling for anything he can use to hit their head — and luck is on his side. His little finger bumps into the fruit bowl. It’s made out of glass and sturdy enough to do some damage. He curls his fingers around it and slams it against their head with as much might as he can.

Stiles hears a pained groan mere heartbeats before the grip on him loosens. Gathering all his strength, he shoves the person off him and rolls onto his stomach. His world tips around him, even in the dark. A wave of nausea rolls over him as he struggles to his feet. The ground is unsteady underneath him, and Stiles stumbles, flailing his arms to fight for balance. His ears are ringing.

He’s not going to make it out of here.

No.

Stiles shakes his head. The movement makes him nearly throw up and lose his balance. All his attention is zeroed in on the sheen of light coming from the ajar front door. That’s his way out. If he manages to get there— but the first step makes him loose his balance again. His concussion makes it impossible to walk. Or maybe it’s the drug. How much time has passed?

Or maybe it’s both.

He just needs to—

--- --- ---

Consciousness creeps up on him, slow, sluggish, a snail on its way to an unknown goal. It’s hard to stay awake, even harder to figure out if he’s passed out again. The room is dark all the time. At least, he thinks it is. Maybe he hasn’t opened his eyes yet. What time is it? What day is it?

Stiles blinks his eyes open.

Soft rays of sunshine are painting the ceiling with peaceful strokes, yet something about them makes dread pool in Stiles’ stomach. Unease pushes into his veins, taking over every inch of his body and quenches the exhaustion. With every tick of a clock somewhere close by, Stiles becomes more and more awake – and more and more aware.

This isn’t his home.

Because someone kidnapped him.

His heart lurches in his chest as panic takes hold of him. It’s not just the presence of a window that’s wrong. The mattress is too soft, the blankets too thick. It’s too warm.

There is someone lying right next to him. Asleep, judging by the sound of their soft breathing. What the fuck is going on? Who- Stiles doesn’t have a stalker. Right? Theo would’ve surely noticed if someone were following him. He did last time.

And what happened to Theo?

Okay, one step at a time.

Stiles turns his head to the side. There’s an alarm clock on his side of the nightstand, bright red numbers informing him that it’s 7:23 am. Next to the alarm clock is a lamp. That’s going to be helpful. Stiles reaches for it, curling his fingers around the cool metal, and slowly inches closer and closer to the edge of the mattress. It’s best to just take the lamp with him. Maybe he can get out of here without waking the freak that kidnapped him in the first place. But- but who is it?

His fear is stifled by reason. If he leaves, and he doesn’t get a face of a name, what’s stopping them from doing it again? The address won’t be enough. They might be long gone when the police arrive, and Stiles isn’t planning on waiting around. The more he wakes up, the worse the pain gets in his head. That’s a concussion. Someone gave him a fucking concussion and then drugged him... only to do what? Play happy family?

Stiles grinds his teeth and turns around again. The person is mostly blanketed by the darkness of the room and facing away from him. Should he turn on the light? Sneak around the bed? Should he-

“I can feel you staring at me.”

Light floods the room, and Stiles covers his eyes with a groan. His grip tightens around the lamp. He yanks it off the nightstand. For a second, there’s resistance but the then cable gives and Stiles is willing to swing it at everything that moves.

A hand clasps around his arm before the lamp connects with anything, however. “I still have a headache from the fruit bowl.”

Stiles freezes. His whole world stops, zeroing in on the sound of the all too familiar voice despite his head screaming at him. “What the-” Stiles open his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as his gaze falls upon none other than Theo “-fuck?” he finishes, yanking his arm back. The lamp hovers above his head, knuckles turning white as he debates to hit his boyfriend over the head with it anyway. “What the fuck?” he repeats because saying it once doesn’t put nearly enough emphasis on how much he wants to whack him with this lamp.

“Okay.” Theo gets onto his knees, hands raised almost defensively. “Before you get mad-”

“Before I get mad? Theo, I am mad.” Stiles slams the lamp back onto the nightstand and crosses his arms. At this point, he’s ready to do worse than hit him with a goddamn lamp. Strangling him sounds like a wonderful alternative. “What the fuck were you thinking? Are you insane?”

Theo scoots closer to his side of the bed. “I thought you like that about me.” The guy actually has the nerve to look amused after scaring the living hell out of Stiles, give him a concussion and drug him. Neither his smile, not his body – beautifully on display and only wearing boxer briefs that leave nothing to the imagination – can get him out of this easily. He knew Theo’s ideas are usually a little different, but this is taking the cake.

Sucking in a breath, Stiles glares at him. “If this is your idea of a practical joke-” Because he is not in the mood, not with his head feeling as if someone’s using at as a fucking trampoline. He needs pain meds, or a doctor; actually, a visit to the ER sounds great after a fucking overdose and a concussion. That’s going to be fun to explain.

“In my defense, it was your dad’s idea.”

Stiles stares at him. That is a joke. Theo cannot be serious. “Dad told you to turn my apartment into a crime scene and kidnap me?” While his dad’s humor can be quite questionable at times, this does not at all sound like him. Never, in a million years, has any of this been his dad’s idea.

Theo runs his hand over the back of his neck. “Well...”

Closing his eyes, Stiles sinks back into the pillows. “You better have a very good explanation for this.” Although what could explain kidnapping him? Sure, they’ve role-played before, and it’s not like they’re kinks are necessarily something a lot of people are into — probably, it’s not like he knows. But using actual drugs? Giving him a concussion? That’s not like Theo.

“If you let me talk.” Theo flicks something against his chest.

Stiles squints down at his lap. Tylenol. Good.

Offering him a bottle of water, Theo watches him with his brows raised expectantly. “As I was saying—”

Snatching the bottle of water from him, Stiles shoots him a look. As he was saying, yeah, right.

“I wanted to make it official.” Theo visibly deflates, shoulders hunching slightly as his gaze drag from Stiles’ face to the Tylenol between his fingers. His face darkens, eyes narrowing slightly. For a few seconds, it seems that he’s far away, somewhere deep in the corners of a memory that refuses to let go of him. “I’m not going to hide us any longer.” Without warning, he gets off the bed and starts pacing the room, his shoulders a tense line.

Stiles cannot tell if it’s the concussion, or if Theo is just not making any sense. It’s true that not everyone knew about their relationship. His dad does, so do Kira and Lydia, but for the sake of keeping the piece within their packs, Stiles and Theo decided that it’s easier to pretend they’re merely getting along. They’re both good enough actors that nobody noticed anything or over a year. “So, you kidnapped me to…” he trails off, hoping Theo would fill in the gap.

“He threatened to kick me off his territory,” Theo snaps, eyes flashing yellow as he struggles to control his anger. There aren’t many people who could piss him off like that, and there is only one person who would have the ability to essentially exile Theo.

“And instead of talking to me about it…” Stiles shakes his head, instantly regretting the movement, and decides to take the Tylenol at last.

Theo lets out a long breath. “I was scared.”

Stiles snaps his head up, staring at Theo in bewilderment. Those three words aren’t something his boyfriend would throw around lightly. “Babe-”

But Theo doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s standing still, looking strangely lost as he continues talking, “I had it planned out. I talked to your dad. I talked to Lydia about the ring. I bought a ring.”

“A ring?” Stiles echoes before he can stop himself. They’ve been dating a year, why would Theo- his heart leaps into his throat. I wanted to make it official. Theo wasn’t just talking about telling everyone about their relationship. Stiles swallows and sits up straighter. “Theo, why didn’t you come talk to me?” he asks, patting the bed. They’re usually pretty good when it comes to communication, which honestly surprised Stiles more than anyone else. They work, perfectly, and it’s not even mad that Theo staged a very real kidnapping, it’s that he didn’t talk to him about it beforehand.

Which probably says more about him than he’d like to admit.

“I wanted it to be perfect!” Theo throws his hands in the air, frustration returning in full force. “I asked your dad for your hand first, of course.” Of course. Theo acts like it’s normal. Sure, there are still a lot of traditional people out there, and it is a sweet gesture, Stiles can’t deny that. He still didn’t expect it. Not from Theo. “Then I went to Scott. I tried to bury the hatched for you. Lydia helped me talk to him. We told him about our plans, but he said ‘no’.” Their eyes met, and Stiles can see the same fury burn that must have enveloped Theo when he decided to take what he considers his and make a run for it. “And that it’s time for me to leave his territory.” His hands are curled into tight fists, but his shoulders slump, and he bows his head, staring at the ground with a suddenly unreadable expression.

Stiles lets out a breath. His concussion doesn’t exactly make it easy to think. “Well,” he says slowly, drawing his brows together, “I’m glad to hear a kidnapping wasn’t in the original proposal plans.” He massages his temple, waiting for the Tylenol to set in quickly so he can focus on Theo alone instead of having to deal with this pounding headache on top of everything else. “Or giving me a concussion for that matter.”

“You broke a fruit bowl over my head.”

“Because you gave me a concussion!” Stiles raises his hands in defensive. They’re going to go in circles. Theo isn’t any less stubborn than he is. The only reason for Stiles’ winning most of the time is that Theo is insanely easily distracted by the prospect of sex. Not that Stiles is much better, but he does have the edge – at least for a little while. “Still… why didn’t you just talk to me?” The one thing Theo might love almost as much as Stiles is complaining about Scott’s incompetence. So, it doesn’t make any sense that he’d keep this to himself. None whatsoever.

Theo runs a hand over his face and pulls his shoulders up for the slowest shrug this side of the universe. “I panicked,” he says, having the nerve to sound mad about it.

“Because Scott told you to get lost?” Stiles squints at his boyfriend. It’s hard to tell if Theo doesn’t make any sense, or if his concussion makes his fail to see it. “He does that twice a week, and you laugh in his face. I don’t get-“

Theo shoots him a look, cutting Stiles off mid-sentence. It’s impossible who he’s angry at – himself for overreacting, Stiles for not getting it, or Scott for having the audacity to try and order him around. Not a single possibility makes a lick of sense. “He told me to leave you!” Theo snaps, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

Stiles blinks, staring at his boyfriend in bewilderment. “You think I care?” If he weren’t so utterly baffled by Theo’s words, he’d point out that Scott and he haven’t been the same since long before Theo returned to Beacon Hills. It doesn’t matter to him what Scott thinks. He certainly wouldn’t be dating Theo if that were the case. Plus, as a human, no alpha can boss him around. “Last time I checked, I decide who I’m going to marry.”

For a few heartbeats, Theo doesn’t say anything. His wide blue eyes are fixed on him, almost contemplating. What’s going on in his head is anybody’s guess, but the smile tugging on the corner of his mouth is almost sheepish. Theo releases a breath and crosses the room. “I panicked,” he repeats. An explanation, not an apology. He might not apologize at all.

Stiles doesn’t expect one. Sighing, he lifts his blanket and shakes his head as Theo crawls on top of him. “You’re an idiot,” Stiles tells him. “Talk to me before you kidnap me next time.”

A chuckle ripple through Theo’s body. He wraps his arms around Stiles’ waist. “Fine,” he whispers, leaning his head against his chest. It's probably not the most comfortable position, but Stiles isn’t about to argue. “Next time I’ll make sure to get your consent before I kidnap you.”

“That’s not-“ Stiles lets out a breath. There’s not really any point in arguing. “You’re impossible.”

Theo laughs again, it’s soft and gentle, and a sound to fall in love with. “But you’re going to marry me anyway.”

Rolling his eyes, Stiles bends down to kiss the top of Theo’s head softly. “Yeah,” he breathes, almost a little surprised how sure he felt about his answer. They might not have dated for long, but he’s not doubting his decision at all. “But only if I get the proposal you planned with Lydia.”

Theo tightens his embrace for all but a second. “And a ring.”

“I love you.” Stiles runs his fingers through Theo’s hair.

“I love you too.”