word count: 2854
fandom: heated rivalry
rating: EXPLICIT. minors dni.
summary: Shane can't get off and calls Ilya for help, ft. the dildo
read on ao3
The hotel bar is fine. Not as bad as it could be, given that Montreal just lost game six of their latest playoff series, and with it their chance at the Cup. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault—in fact, Shane thinks this is the strongest Montreal has been since he was drafted.
Sometimes, the other team is just better.
Still, the loss stings. A shot glass appears in his hand, magically refilling each time he knocks it back—and he’s knocking it back far more than he should. Shane likes playoffs, likes going against the best of the league, likes testing his skills. But now, knowing it’s all over, he just wants to go home.
Two hours and four shots later, he stumbles back to his hotel room. He peels off his suit jacket and shirt, the same from when he left the arena. He tries his best to fold them, but the world spins too much, so he settles for laying them over the back of the desk chair. He withdraws his phone from his pants pocket, setting it on the nightstand. Then, he flops onto the mattress.
He has the single room tonight, due to his hat trick on the ice earlier. He relishes in it as his hand drifts down his chest to the waistband of his pants, then his crotch. He exhales languidly as he just squeezes, letting the feeling wash over him. He feels only slightly guilty, knowing thin drywall is all that separates him from Hayden and J. J. in the next room.
Maybe a lil carlando birthday fic? Lando teasing Carlos about being 30 and Carlos teasing Lando about being into “old men”
I guess Lando likes frogs in this one??? idk where this came from lol also its an au where his bday doesn't fall on a race bc it worked better 😅
Lando closes the door to their apartment with a soft click, careful not to wake Carlos who’s still sleeping soundly in the bedroom. He leaves his keys on the little frog-shaped dish that stands on the table next to the door. Carlos had given it to him as a joke once, but Lando had found it adorable and immediately gave it a new home as a place for all their little trinkets.
He smiles fondly at this memory and he makes his way to the kitchen, where he can finally put down the heavy box he’s carrying. He quickly washes his hands in the sink before he comes back to assess his efforts. The birthday cake he’s gotten for Carlos has thankfully survived the transport from the shop to his car and to the apartment. The writing he had requested on top is done with smooth, glittery red letters, their color contrasting nicely with the black of the cake. All in all, Lando is very satisfied with the result.
The telltale sounds of Carlos waking up and going to the bathroom prompt Lando to stop staring at the black cake and finally put it in the fridge. For now, milk and cereal will have to do.
~~
When Carlos enters the kitchen five minutes later, he’s greeted by a very excited Lando sprinting to his arms. A big smile splits on his face as he opens them to encompass the other man to a hug.
“Good morning mi amor,” he whispers and places a small kiss on the top of his head. Lando’s curls tickling his nose softly fills him with a love he can’t handle that early in the morning. “Your hair is tickling me” he says instead, hoping Lando will understand him anyways.
Lando understands him, of course. He kisses him deeply, and a little messily too, but Carlos pretends not to notice the little tear threatening to fall from his eye. “Happy birthday baby” he breathes against his lips, before pulling him into a tight hug, burying his face in Carlos’ chest.
When they pull apart, Lando beckons Carlos to the table and places a big bowl of cereal in front of him. They sit on the table eating their breakfast, their feet touching every few seconds. Carlos thinks it’s one of the best mornings of his life.
~~
They move to the sofa later, Lando snuggled against Carlos’ side, with the other man’s hand draped around his shoulders. He pokes his hand against his ribs, a mischievous grin forming on his face. When Carlos turns to look at him, he passes him the remote and plasters the most innocent expression that he can manage on his face.
“Do you want to choose the show we watch today, honey?” he says casually, his voice not betraying him for a second.
Carlos turns to look at him at that, his raised eyebrow almost reaching his hairline, but he can’t read the expression on Lando’s face. “What happened to I’m the youngest, so I get to choose then?”
At this, Lando starts to crack. He still delivers his joke before he bursts out laughing though. “Oh well, I thought, since you’re turning thirty, I’ve got to respect my elders, you know?”
He bolts out of the sofa as he says that, and narrowingly manages to avoid Carlos’ tickle-trap. He still hears his squeak of indignation as he enters the kitchen though.
~~
When he comes back, Carlos has put on some show and is waiting for him with a little too innocent of a smile on his face, in Lando’s opinion. When he sees the cake in his arms, however, he bounces quickly up and on his feet, forgetting about Lando’s teasing from before. Until he sees the cake, that is.
It’s a beautiful black cake, with his driver’s number drawn on the side and a chili pepper next to it. It’s only when Lando puts the cake on the table that he can see what is written, and he immediately tackles him to the sofa, the tickling not avoided this time.
In between bursts of laughs, Lando manages to form a sentence. “What? I knew you would love it!”
“Lando! You’ve literally written Happy Birthday Old Man on it! I’m not that old, I just turned thirty!” He jabs a finger in his armpit, just to be sure he got his point across.
Lando, however, seems to really enjoy being tickled today, because he doesn’t stop. “Exactly! You’re, like, ancient. You have to bestow your wisdom on me.”
A shit-eating grin forms on Carlos’ face when he hears that. “Well, Landito, my piece of wisdom is as follows. Lando Norris is into old men,” he fake-whispers. “It’s true, he told me himself. He likes them really old. In fact, he loves it especially when they’re past thirty.” He makes a mock-shocked face, like he’s scandalized to hear what just came out of his mouth.
Lando seems to find this hilarious. He’s laughing so much that tears form in his eyes and he would be doubling in half if Carlos wasn’t sitting half on top of him.
When he calms down, he pulls him in for a kiss before sitting up to serve them some cake. “It’s your birthday Carlos, you get to choose which piece you want first,” he says, and grabs the knife he’d left on the table.
Carlos looks at him excitedly when he hears that and rushes to investigate the two pieces of cake he had cut.
~~
Later, when they’re sitting in bed, Carlos thinks this is the best birthday he’s had in a while. And if the next morning he makes Lando call him old man as he’s making him unravel under his touch, well, that’s no one else’s business but his own.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
i wrote a little one shot based on the idea that tommy has been self-aware from the beginning because that’s a concept i really like! i don’t think i’ve seen much of it though, so i decided to make something mostly for myself
The Host was sitting on a bed in Dr. Iplier’s clinic, his legs dangling off the edge as the doctor swabbed around his eye sockets with a damp cloth. He had just hissed in pain as the doctor rubbed at a particularly sensitive spot, causing the doc to quickly apologize and let off some of the pressure.
It had taken weeks upon weeks of gentle nudging from the doctor to get the Host in his clinic for a checkup. He just couldn’t stand the constantly sloppy state of his bandages, and he knew that the blind man wasn’t cleaning his wounds properly, if he was at all.
He was eventually able to get the Host to come in every other week, then once a week, then twice a week, and now he comes in daily every morning to replace his bandages and possibly chat a little.
“Alright, I’m done cleaning.” Dr. Iplier said, throwing away the bloodied cloth and picking up a fresh roll of bandages. “I’m going to start the bandaging now.”
Dr. Iplier wound the gauze strip over the Host’s eyes three times before making sure it was secure in the back.
“That’s not too tight, is it?”
“The bandages are perfect,” the Host replied as he hopped off his perch. “The Host thanks Edward for his help.”
“You don’t have to thank me every time.” Dr. Iplier shuffled his feet nervously. “It makes it feel...impersonal.”
“The Host apologizes.”
The doctor groaned. “That’s just as bad!”
Edward would ever admit it aloud, but the way the Host spoke annoyed him to death sometimes. His mumbled narrations never bothered him, in fact they were almost soothing in a way. But trying to hold an actual conversation was just frustrating.
Edward was so caught up in his own thoughts he didn’t realize that they weren’t staying inside of his head. The Host was narrating the doctor’s internal monologue quietly to himself, a guilty expression crossing his face for perhaps the first time in his life. He paused his narrations for a moment, swallowing down a lump in his throat.
“I’m sorry” the Host said, quiet enough that Edward almost missed it. He blinked in shock, looking at the Host as if he had grown a second head.
“You can talk?!”
“You might want to get that head of yours checked because I’m pretty sure I always could,” The Host said louder this time, starting to smirk.
“No, but I mean you can talk norma-without like- you know…” The doctor stuttered, and the Host laughed. It was the first Dr. Iplier had ever seen him look happy.
“I can do a lot of things, Doctor.”
“Yeah, I mean of course, I didn’t say you couldn’t I just-”
The Host placed his finger in front of the doctor’s lips, shushing him.
“As much as I’d like to continue this riveting conversation, I have to get back to work. I’m set to go live in half an hour and I’d like to get something to eat first.” The Host took a deep breath before continuing his thought. “How about you come visit me in the library this evening and we can talk some more?”
“Yeah. Sure.” Dr. Iplier responded simply, still rather awestruck.
“Great.” And the Host moved his way past the doctor, his trench coat swishing around around his feet as he let his narrations guide him towards the clinic door.
“I’m free after noon!” he shouted behind him before exiting, leaving Dr. Iplier rather stranded and unsure of what to do.
Once the Host was back at his desk within the solitary depths of the library, the confidence he had been so full of seeped from him like someone wringing a wet towel. He placed his head in his hands, careful not to mess up the neatly wrapped bandages.
“The Host realizes the stupidity of his actions and holds extreme regret” he groaned to himself.
The Doctor managed to slip out of the clinic around 2, locking the door behind him and hoping Wilford had the common sense not to shoot anyone for the rest of the day. He felt apprehensive knocking on the door to the library. He had never seen anyone enter the room except for Dark and the Host himself. He did it anyway, his sharp knock resonated through the aged oak wood of the door.
“The Doctor can enter” The Host called from within the room. The Doctor twisted the doorknob and entered, slowly.
The library was dark. There were no windows, and no lights. The only illumination came from the far end of the room, behind the rows of shelves. The Doctor shuffled his way towards the light, trailing his fingers along the shelves as a guide. When he pulled his hand away, his fingertips were covered in dust.
The source of illumination was soon identified as coming from several monitors, flickering with static. The monitors rested on a desk where the Host sat, his back turned.
“Hello?” Dr. Iplier called. “Um, I don’t know if you know, but it’s really dark in here.”
The Host jumped, silently cursing his oversight.
“The library is illuminated enough that Edward can see his surroundings.” he said quickly, and the room filled with light. The doctor squinted, eyes taking a moment to adjust to the change in lighting. The Host had still not turned around. Dr. Iplier waited, allowing the Host to say the first word.
“The Host-Would you grab me that book from over there?” The Host said after a moment, pointing towards the corner of his desk.
“Please?” he asked after a brief hesitation. Dr. Iplier leaned over, snatching a worn paperback with a red cover off of the corner of the Host’s desk.
“Read it to me,” the Host said, pushing back his microphone and pulling his braille typewriter in front of him.
So Dr. Iplier did. He read, and the Host typed, his fingers flying impossibly fast over the keys. Dr. Iplier stumbled over a couple words but even then, the clacking of the typewriter didn’t pause. Over time, Dr. Iplier started to relax, letting his mind melt into the words, into the story of a young women who found herself trapped in an unknown world. Once he had finished the first chapter, the Host turned around in his chair, a smirk on his face.
“I had forgotten how that story went. Thank you doctor.”
“Who wrote this?” Dr. Iplier asked, running his thumb over the spot where the book’s author should have been credited. The name had been scratched out with ink to the point of being unreadable.
The Host waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, just some washed up author who nobody cares about anymore.”
“Huh.”
“Anyway, doctor, I have to say that I quite enjoy your company”
“Likewise, Host. It is a pleasure.” Edward responded, replicating the Host’s stiff manner of speaking.
The Host tilted his head to the side.
“The Doctor wouldn’t find it advisable to mock the Host,” he said menacingly. The Doc froze with fear, but then the Host gave him a sly grin.
“Just messing with you.”
“Don’t do that!” The Doc squeaked, almost giving the Host a slap on the arm but thinking better of it.
“You’re afraid of me.” The Host said wonderingly after a brief but awkward silence, the smile fading a bit off his face.
Dr. Iplier opened his mouth to tell him that all the egos were afraid of him, and was going to tell him about that one time Silver had a nightmare about him and had to be coaxed out of his room… but once again he stopped himself. Edward was beginning to think that maybe he had better impulse control that he thought.
“Maybe if you left this creepy library every now and then you’d be more approachable." he decided to say instead.
The Host made a face.
“Doubtful.”
“C’mon. You should come outside, go on a walk with me, enjoy the sunshine.” Dr. Iplier nagged. The doctor was nothing if not persistent. “Doctor’s orders,” he added when the Host didn’t respond.
“Fine.” Host grumbled. His tone was sour but a small smile remained on his face.
The Host stood, and Dr. Iplier beamed. The doctor followed the Host to the door, betwixt by the endless twists and turns he took simply to get out of the room. Dr. Iplier sped up his pace to reach the door first, pulling and holding it open like the obvious gentlemen he was. The Host was so distracted by the absurdity of the action that he almost ran straight into the person standing on the other side of the door - Dark.
“Why hello, Host,” Dark said with his eyebrows raised. Dr. Iplier cringed and slipped further behind the door, out of Dark’s view. “I wanted to talk to you about some important matters.”
Dark moved to enter the room, but the Host didn’t budge.
“The Host requests Dark comes back later, as the Host was just going to leave.”
Dark had an incredulous look on his face, the type a spoiled kid might have when they get denied something for the first time.
“This is a pressing matter. I must insist.”
Dark didn’t let the anger seep into his voice yet, but his aura pushed forward, inky tendrils caressing the Host’s body, reminding him of his place.
“The Host also insists. Dark will go back to his office and wait, or go talk to another ego.” The Host put power behind his last sentence, his narration pushing against the force of Dark’s aura. The aura resisted, clinging on to its spot in reality as long as it could before finally giving in. Dark turned on his heels and stalked back down the hallway to his office without further incident.
Dr. Iplier poked his head out from the hiding spot he had been trembling behind.
The Host extended an arm backwards. “Come on, Edward”
Dr. Iplier came towards him, trembling, and the Host clutched onto his arm, as if he was the one being guided and not the other way around. They exited the room this way, heading out the front door into the crisp air. The sun warmed the Host's face, and he tilted his head towards it.
It hadn't even been a month since Stiles had been freed from the Nogitsune, but the scars had yet to heal, especially the emotional ones. Stiles felt responsible for everything, despite Scott's constant urging to the contrary, especially for Allison's death.
His dad had taken off as much time as he could from the station to help care for Stiles, who was just starting to recover from being a total wreck.
Tonight, however, the sheriff couldn't take off, Melissa was at work, and Stiles needed a hug, God did he need a hug. Stiles was hugging his pillow, crying silently into it. He needed Scott. Now.
He reached over to his nightstand and tapped out a message through the blur of his tears.
"Hey dude tonight is bad. I need a hug. Get here ASAP pls" he sent, barely able to hold on to the phone, his hands were shaking so bad.
He dropped his phone onto the bed and sobbed into his pillow.
He had nearly cried himself to sleep when he heard his window open, and he jumped up, scrambling for the bat next to his bed.
"Stiles, what are you doing?" came Derek's voice from the open window.
Stiles blinked and then lowered the bat.
"Derek, why are you in my room?" Stiles demanded croakily.
"Because you sent me a text demanding that I ‘come hug you asap’.” Derek said exasperatedly.
Stiles set the bat down and snatched up his phone.
"No, I definitely asked Scott to give me a hug because Scott is my best friend and- oh.” Stiles stopped abruptly. The text had been sent to Derek, not Scott.
Derek cleared his throat pointedly after a couple of seconds, "Something wrong?"
Stiles shook his head gently and hung it. He dropped the phone back on his bed and sobbed.
Derek took a few steps toward him and stopped right in front of Stiles.
"I'm sorry I dragged you out-" Stiles began to apologize.
Derek awkwardly lurched forward, paused, and then gently wrapped his arms around Stiles, who was too shocked to protest.
Derek stood there and held Stiles, and his breath. He exhaled jerkily when Stiles dropped his head onto his shoulder, sobbing, and slid his arms around Derek's back.
Stiles was shocked, but not just by Derek giving him a hug. They had been through a ton together, and after Boyd's death, they had shared something that he didn't quite understand.
What really shocked Stiles was how tender Derek was in hugging him. He contrasted sharply with Scott, who was all about the bear hug, and Stiles liked the difference.
Stiles had always, well recently at least, felt safe when he was with Derek, but this was different. He felt more than safe, he felt... content, despite the pain he was feeling. Derek hugging him helped wash it all away, which he hadn't experienced much since he lost his mom.
Derek gently ran his hands up and down Stiles' back slowly, comfortingly, while he waited for Stiles sobs to subside.
He had no idea how long they had stood there, but Stiles had definitely been quiet for at least a couple minutes. Derek kept slowly running his hands across Stiles' back, letting him melt into his shoulder.
After a couple deep, steadying breaths, Stiles let go of Derek and stepped back. He looked away from Derek awkwardly, rubbing the back of his arm.
"Stiles...?" Derek asked softly when Stiles remained silent.
"Is this what it felt like after-" Stiles murmured quietly without looking at Derek.
Derek stiffened for a moment, and then relaxed visibly.
"Yes." Derek whispered.
As impossible as it seemed, Stiles' head managed to drop even lower.
Derek reached up and lifted Stiles' chin gently, looking him in the eyes, "Stiles. You're not alone. You were there for me, and- and I'm here for you."
Tears burst forth from Stiles as he collapsed forward into Derek's arms. Derek shushed him quietly and lowered both of them to the edge of the bed.
Stiles bawled into Derek's shoulder and Derek held him, just as he had wished someone had done for him after Boyd.
Stiles was letting out all the pain and anger, suffering and helplessness, agony and heartbreak, and Derek knew all too well how torturous that process was.
He held on to Stiles’ for the better part of an hour, until eventually he ran out of steam and fell asleep.
After gently lowering Stiles’ peaceful form and tucking him in, Derek looked down and wiped away the tears that were left on his cheeks, chin, and nose.
Derek inhaled deeply, but shakily, as he bit back his own tears. Seeing Stiles go through this awful ordeal cut Derek, straight to the core.
Derek decided right then and there that he would do everything in his power to lessen Stiles’ pain. He laid down next to Stiles and held him again, noting the shift in Stiles’ scent to contentment.
Stiles’ scent shift was very pleasant, and Derek soon drifted off.
Stiles woke up the next morning, overheating as the sunlight streamed into his bedroom. The only problem was that the heat was coming from behind him, and he was facing the sun.
He stiffened as he realized there was an arm draped over his chest, and the memory of what happened the previous night came flooding back. Usually he has to spend several minutes distracting himself from the nightmares he wakes up from because “remembering them is often worse than having them”, Stiles tells Scott.
He realized it wasn’t a nightmare, and he confirmed this when he craned his head around and saw a leather jacket-clad, dark haired, scruffy werewolf in his bed, nuzzling the back of his neck.
Stiles head snapped back to facing forward as he squinted his eyes hard and searched his memory, trying hard to recall every detail. He wanted to make sure he hadn’t said or done anything stupid with Derek.
He let out a sigh of relief as he realized there hadn’t been anything done or said which could have revealed how he felt for Derek.
Derek stirred and pulled Stiles closer to him. A few seconds later, Stiles heard, and felt, a small huff come from behind him.
It tickled the hair on the back of his neck and he quickly stifled a giggle.
This time when Derek stirred, he retracted his arm and yawned widely, his eyes still tightly shut. Stiles gently peeled back the covers and tried to climb out.
“Stiles?” He heard Derek mumble before he could get even one leg out.
“Uh, hey, Derek.” Stiles replied awkwardly.
“Sorry if you didn’t want me to stay. You kind of passed out before I could ask.” Derek apologized as he sat up.
“Why’d you stay?” Stiles asked as he climbed out of his bed.
Derek didn’t immediately answer, a shadow crossed his face, and, for a moment, he once again looked like he did when Stiles first met him: hollow, dead.
“Nightmares.” Derek said quietly, looking at the window.
Stiles froze where he had been fiddling with papers at his desk, he turned to Derek.
“You too?” He asked softly, setting the papers down and sitting on the edge of the bed.
The bed shifted as Derek slid himself to the edge and sat next to Stiles.
“Still to this day.” Derek admitted.
Stiles reached over and put an arm around Derek, then dropped his head to his shoulder.
“Maybe- maybe I could text you next time I have a bad night?” Stiles stammered quietly from Derek’s shoulder.
“I told you I’m here for you. I meant it.” Derek said.
“But then why didn’t you ever come to me about Boyd? You said I was there for you, but you never talked to me.” Stiles asked.
“Things were complicated, and now they are even more so.” Derek replied cryptically.
“No clue what that means, but it’s ok.” Stiles told Derek as he sat up.
Derek glanced over at Stiles, then stood up and headed for the window.
With one foot out the window, Derek turned to Stiles, “You know how to get a hold of me, just leave the window unlocked like normal.”
Stiles nodded and smiled softly. Derek’s brows softened, and a corner of his mouth may have twitched slightly upwards.
~~~ One Year Later ~~~
A cold draft creeped through the window in Stiles’ room, like it had for nearly a year now. Stiles shivered and put on an oversized sweater.
Stiles remembered it as clearly as though it were yesterday, he had texted Derek during a bad night, but forgot to unlock the window.
He had tried to grow stronger and not rely on Derek’s comforting embrace at night, but it was slow work.
That particular night, Stiles waited as long as he possibly could to text Derek before he started to black out from the panic attack.
Derek had to force the window open to get to Stiles, and it had never sealed shut since then.
Stiles smiled fondly at the memory, the smile accompanied by the usual pang of heartbreak every time he thought about Derek, saw a black Camaro, saw the red of Scott’s eyes, or the blue of Malia’s.
Derek had left with Braeden without a word to any of them. Stiles had felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest. For a while, he thought that he might have preferred a Berserker actually doing that over having to live with the constant agony.
He was finishing a diagram for biology homework when he heard that window slide open.
Stiles spun around and raised the pencil like a knife.
“Really Stiles, I’m not a vampire, staking me with a pencil won’t do anything other than irritate me.” Derek’s voice came from outside the window as he lowered his legs to the floor.
Stiles dropped the pencil.
“Derek?” Stiles voice broke as Derek smiled, actually, genuinely smiled at him.
“Get the fuck out.” Stiles demanded coldly, picking his pencil up and sitting back down at his desk.
“Whoa, did I miss something?” Derek asked in shock.
“Only a whole year!” Stiles spun in his chair and shouted, “Only saying goodbye, only giving a reason for leaving, only saying you’re sorry, only almost an entire year of the life of the one person that I know of who is in love with you!”
“Stiles, I-“ Derek began to apologize.
“No, I’m not done yet. I’ve waited a year to say all this, and I’m going to say all of it, right now.” Stiles cut him off, standing up and brandishing an accusatory finger.
Derek nodded his head silently.
“You know what I realized when I saw you bleeding to death? You know why I hesitated to go help Scott? Because I realized I never told you that I loved you. I thought you were going to die without me getting the chance to tell you.”
Tears were streaming down Stiles’ face, and his breath was coming in ragged sobs.
“Why did you leave? You have any idea how hard it was to see you die and then ‘poof’ not-dead Derek plus full wolf shift? And then you ran off without a word!? You flipped my world upside down twice in the space of a couple minutes. That’s what you do to me Derek.”
Stiles’ breath was now dangerously sharp, and he leaned against his chair precariously.
A split second after they locked eyes, Derek lurched forward and, just like the first time, hugged Stiles.
Stiles didn’t resist, but he didn’t hug Derek back either.
“I had already grown to like you Stiles, and that month when I spent almost every other night with you, that just compounded it. But you had just broken up with Malia, so I didn’t know what to do or say about my feelings. But in the van, when you talked about the triskelion, and about Satomi’s control chant, I just knew. It hit me like a ton of bricks.” Derek explained quietly over Stiles’ shoulder.
Derek sighed and continued, “I knew for sure in that moment that I had fallen in love with you Stiles Stilinski. But then I witnessed what watching me suffer on the brink of death did to you. I couldn’t bear to put you through that ever again. At the same time, it hurt so much to leave, I couldn’t even look at you or say anything. The best I could do was nod at Scott and then try to distract myself from thinking about you by leaving with Braeden.”
Stiles huffed shakily at him, “You broke my heart to keep my heart from getting broken. Sound logic right there.”
“I’m here to mend it Stiles. If you’ll let me.” Derek said hopefully, pulling back, holding Stiles’ shoulders and looking into his eyes.
“I only regret that you actually have to fix it Derek, we could’ve had a whole extra year to ourselves.” Stiles lamented as he looked up at Derek.
At those words, Derek’s hands dropped and he looked away, pain flashing across his face.
“Hey, I forgive you, if you’ll just… promise not to leave again.” Stiles said softly, putting a hand on Derek’s chest.
“I promise I won’t leave you again.” Derek whispered, his brows furrowing in pain as his eyes watered.
Stiles stepped forward and grinned widely up at Derek. The pain vanished from his face and was replaced with a gentle smile and a warm glow.
“God I almost forgot how beautiful you are.” Derek whispered as his eyes roamed Stiles’ face, drinking in every last mole.
“I had that picture that Liam took of all of us one night just after wrapping up a meeting.” Stiles admitted.
“The picture where you decided to lay across me?” Derek asked flatly.
“Hey! Scott pushed me off the arm of the couch, I fell across you Sourwolf.” Stiles shot back with a laugh.
Derek beamed at the sound of his old nickname coming from Stiles.
Time froze.
Silence fell.
Derek could feel his heart pounding against Stiles’ hand and he could hear the machine gun fire of Stiles’ own heart.
They weren’t even a foot apart, and Derek was becoming intoxicated by the scent he had missed for so long.
Stiles’ tongue poked nervously out to wet his lips, and Derek’s eyes flicked down momentarily.
When he looked back up, he and Stiles stared into each others’ eyes. The whiskey brown of Stiles’ eyes looked so deep and lonely to Derek, and the green-gold of Derek’s looked so longingly into Stiles’.
Derek didn’t have the chance to lean down before Stiles’ dragged him down by the shirt, pressing their lips firmly together.
The swiftness that Stiles displayed shocked Derek, but he didn’t miss a beat, sliding his hands around Stiles’ lower back to bend him backwards.
He deepened the kiss as he leaned Stiles backwards slightly, and Stiles’ spare hand found its way into the hair on the back of Derek’s head.
Stiles scraped his fingernails against Derek’s scalp as Derek sucked on his tongue.
Derek pulled back, but only for a moment before diving back in, breathlessly exclaiming, “Fuck.”
He leaned back in, kissing more gently this time. Derek was tender, loving, in the way he kissed Stiles now.
Stiles relaxed his grip on Derek’s shirt and ran his hand over the area, smoothing the wrinkles before gently gliding his hand up to Derek’s cheek.
Each kiss became smaller and smaller, each more chaste than the last.
Eventually they stepped apart, and Derek took Stiles’ hands.
“Only one year late, still, better late than never.” Stiles admitted with a smirk.
“So where does this leave us?” Derek asked as he ran his thumb across the back of Stiles’ hand.
“Together, it seems. Finally.” Stiles quipped with a smirk.
With a quick step forward, Stiles hugged Derek, leaning his face against Derek’s wide chest.
“Finally.” Derek said softly.
“Derek… are you hard?” Stiles asked mischievously.
