Thanks for the prompt @jennoasis!! I wrote fluff, again, as always these days it seems xD I hope you like it! ♥♥♥ (for the Nonsexual acts of Intimacy prompt list)
Routines
862 words | Gen
characters: Derek, Stiles
tags: Derek pov, Established Relationship, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, Morning Tired Derek
The alarm clock was loud, and it didn’t stop. Derek tugged Stiles closer, tried to hide his head in the crook of his neck as he groaned.
”Sorry,” Stiles whispered, his low voice morning rough as he snaked an arm out and slapped the clock to shut it up.
”S’fine,” Derek said. He was asleep again within seconds.
•••
”Derek, sleepyhead,” Stiles said softly, and Derek hummed and pressed his face against Stiles’ thigh. ”Time to wake up.”
”Mm,” Derek said. He tiredly wrapped his arm around Stiles’ thigh, nuzzled against his slacks. No, those weren’t slacks. He pulled back a little, blinked his eyes open to look at them. They were dress pants, dark brown. He smiled, he liked that suit, and looked up at Stiles, who was smiling down at him where he sat on the bed next to Derek, his fingers carding Derek’s hair. ”Nice.”
”Important meeting today,” Stiles said.
”I like important meeting days.” Those days meant Stiles in suits, which was always nice. Derek yawned. ”Time is it?”
”Seven. Breakfast is almost ready and coffee is brewing.”
”Mm, I’m coming,” Derek said, then he pressed his face against Stiles’ thigh again, held onto his leg while being careful not to wrinkle his pants.
Stiles didn’t say anything, just kept carding his fingers through Derek’s hair, and after a minute or so Derek sighed and rolled to his back. Stiles was smiling down at him.
”You awake?”
”Mm,” Derek grunted. ”I’ll be there in a minute.”
”Okay.” Stiles stroked Derek’s hair, then got up from the bed only to lean down and press a kiss to Derek’s temple before leaving the bedroom.
Derek stared at the ceiling for a while, listened to Stiles puttering around in the kitchen, but he got up soon. He pulled on pajama pants, socks, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, then he quietly padded into the kitchen, where Stiles was pouring them coffee.
”Morning, babe,” Stiles said.
Derek sat down heavily. ”Yeah, it is,” he said, and Stiles grinned as he put his cup down in front of him. He stood there then, waited with the coffee pot in his hand while Derek filled his cup up with milk and then downed half of it. He put the cup down and Stiles topped it off. Derek smiled at him. ”Thanks.”
”Did you sleep well?” Stiles asked as he put the pot away.
”Yeah. Did you?”
”I don’t know, I was tired when the alarm went off, sorry I woke you with it.” Stiles reached out and touched Derek’s hand when he sat down, but then he started to eat.
”It’s fine, I fell back asleep quickly,” Derek said.
”Yeah, you did,” Stiles said, smiling softly at him. Derek didn’t know he’d ever get used to how much Stiles loved that Derek was morning tired, but he liked it.
They talked a little as they ate, Stiles mostly, Derek usually kept to grunting out answers before he had had at least two cups of coffee, so Stiles often carried their breakfast conversations alone. He was smiling though, always smiling as he looked at Derek fondly.
Eventually, Stiles looked at the time. ”I better get ready to go,” he said and got up from the table. He kissed Derek’s head on the way from the kitchen, and Derek got up and started to clean up after breakfast.
After putting things away and preparing to do the dishes he poured coffee in Stiles’ travel mug, then he dropped that off in the hall on his way to their bedroom and their closet. Stiles had the suit jacket on too, and he was fiddling with his tie.
”Help me with this?” Stiles asked and turned to Derek and lifted his chin.
Derek tried to fix it, but he frowned when it didn’t move like it was supposed to. ”What did you do with this?” he asked as he untied it to start over.
”I don’t know, I thought I had the double Windsor down, but apparently not,” Stiles said. He smiled as he looked at Derek. ”Figured you’d fix it for me.”
Derek huffed a laugh. ”Yeah, can’t let you go out looking like that,” he said as he tied the knot. He looked Stiles over when he was done, smoothed the collars down, ran his hands over his shoulders. ”You look very nice.”
”Thank you,” Stiles said. He leaned in for a soft kiss, then looked at his wristwatch. ”I have to go.”
”Yeah, coffee’s by the door,” Derek said, then he followed Stiles to the hall and watched him put his shoes on and grab his coat. ”Love you, let me know if you’ll be late.”
”Love you too,” Stiles said and leaned in for another kiss. ”Have a good day, see you tonight.”
”You too,” Derek said.
Stiles grabbed his car keys and headed to the garage, and Derek stood in the door and watched him until he was backed out of the garage. Stiles waved at Derek, who lifted his own hand, and when the garage door started to lower Derek closed the door and headed back to the kitchen to start his own day.
The whimsical text tone of his Stark-issued phone pulls Peter kicking and screaming from a rare deep sleep, and his arm fumbles out of the warm down comforter to flop like a dead fish onto his nightstand. He reels the glowing screen toward his one cracked-open eye.
Johnny: Do you think Cap will wear his American Flag boxer-briefs to the funeral?
Peter types with one thumb. Absolutely. They’re his lucky underwear.
He tosses the phone on the sheets and rolls over, chasing sleep for a few more hours. He’s almost drifted off, wrapped up like a human burrito, when his traitorous brain finally breaks the surface. He grabs the phone again.
Wait. Who died?
*****
And that’s how Peter Parker finds himself standing in the queue of superheroes waiting to bid adieu to Deadpool, a man they all, at one point or another, claimed to despise.
Tony Stark is dressed in a seven thousand dollar slate-blue Armani jacket—likely tricked out with enough StarkTech to rival his Iron Man suit—but all the other’s are in full costume. The viewing line stretches out the doors of a funeral home that hasn’t been updated since the nineteen-eighties, and by the time Peter finally reaches the casket he wants to borrow one of Wade’s beloved katanas and carve a swath through the faux-mourners and dated decor.
The sickly-sweet scent of decomposing flowers and the squeaking of vinyl-coated chairs under heavy hero asses is giving Peter a throbbing headache.
In front of him, Wolverine leans over Deadpool’s recumbent body, muttering about the great frozen north in the sky while he stuffs a bottle of booze, a handgun, and an obscene number of knives between Deadpool’s red and black leathers and the white satin lining of the coffin. Peter steps forward, tapping Wolverine on the shoulder and almost earns an Adamantium claw through his chest.
“Sorry to cut your goodbye short, Logan, but do you think I could have a moment alone with him?”
The claws retract. “Yeah, sure kid. Of course. I wasn’t always nice to him, like you were, so I just wanted to give Wade a proper send off.”
Peter nods, even though it’s not true. He’s been plenty mean to Wade too, but at least that’s in the past. “He’ll definitely be…well equipped.”
He watches as Wolverine walks away, pulling a flask out of his yellow suit. When Peter is sure Logan and the rest of the mourners are preoccupied, he steps up to the mahogany casket.
Deadpool is dressed in his red and black suit, minus the mask, which lies next to his pockmarked face on the pillow. Peter bends down, head bowed, and murmurs against the deformed shell of Deadpool’s ear, “Now listen, I know you’re not dead.”
Wade missed his calling as a ventriloquist because Peter swears his lips never move when he whispers back, “Yeah, no shit.”
*****
“You’re not leaving, are you?” Tony’s hand against his chest stops Peter’s momentum toward the exit. “You should deliver the eulogy, Spiderman. You knew him best.”
“Yeah, no, I think… I don’t...that’s a terrible—“
“Nonsense!” Tony leads Peter back toward the casket, next to which the funeral director places a podium. “Knock em dead, er, I mean, I’m sure you’ll do a great job. You’re a natural orator.” That’s Tony’s polite way of saying Peter talks a lot of shit.
“But Mr. Stark, I’ve never given a eulogy before! I have no idea what I’m supposed to say.”
“Tell us something nice about him. Tell us why we should remember him.” Tony shoos him toward the lectern at the foot of the coffin like he’s herding a skittish animal, and takes his seat in the audience.
Peter grips the edge of the wooden stand so tightly it cracks. The funeral director gives him the stink eye. He probably read the Daily Bugle.
Oh god oh god oh god what do I say?
“Uh, good afternoon, everyone. I’m Spiderman, and I guess…” In the front row sits Captain America, nodding encouragingly at him, while Johnny Storm grins and gives Peter the finger from the back of the room. He pauses, restarts with more conviction. “I’m Deadpool’s best friend.”
A hundred spectators lock eyes on Spiderman, but Peter can’t keep help looking to Wade’s still form.
There could be a million reasons why Deadpool, immortal mercenary, has faked his death. Maybe he needs protection. Maybe he’s bored and wants to pull a prank on everyone. Whatever the reason, as Peter stands in front of his superhuman peers, he realizes the entire ordeal has taught him a valuable lesson.
The spandex Spiderman suit leaves no breathing room for fear, but as he swung here, his disbelief ebbing and flowing with each catch and release of his web, Peter found he was scared. It can’t be true. Thwip. What if it is? Thwip. No. Wade can’t die. Thwip. What if he doesn’t come back this time? Thwip. I don’t want to be without him.
“Years ago, Wade Wilson—a mercenary, an ex-soldier, a man dying from cancer—walked into a genetic research facility, and Deadpool walked out. For better or for worse—and for too long I mistakenly believed it was worse—Deadpool came to New York City. He came for me.”
Peter looks out at a room full of colorful costumes and conflicted faces. “He came for all of us; to learn, to change. There are people sitting in this room who hate Deadpool, and always will. There are people here who’ve grown to respect him, to work side-by-side with him, to trust him. I thought I’d always be the former, but I’m the latter.”
Fear’s a hell of a teacher, but Peter’s not scared anymore.
“If there’s one thing I’d want anyone to know about Deadpool, it’s this: Weapon X didn’t create a monster-” Peter smiles- “They unwittingly made a hero. And I’m kind of in love with him.”
Deadpool sits straight up in his coffin, and a dozen of Earth’s mightiest heroes scream like little kids. “You know I’ve actually died fifty-six times in your presence over the years. Where was this heartfelt profession before?”
Peter climbs into the casket and kisses Wade full on the mouth.
*****
“Nice speech, Spiderman,” Johnny says as everyone files out of the funeral home. Wade, with one arm flung over Peter’s shoulder, gives him a quick squeeze. “But I’m kind of pissed we never found out if Captain America was sporting a star-spangled ass.”
Peter shakes his head. “I can say with one hundred percent certainty, he is not.”
Johnny and Wade wear matching skeptical expressions, so Peter pulls the waist of his spandex pants away from his body. “I made a pit-stop on my way here.”
“Now that’s a patriotic dick.” Wade whistles.
Johnny laughs so hard he cries. “Why the hell did you steal Captain America’s underwear?”
Peter looks at Wade, and feels pretty damn lucky.
He may never give them back.
—————
Based on this tumblr post. For @jennoasis my spideypool buddy :-)
Sterek. Cotton candy. Also I'm sorry you're sad and frustrated 😔
Thanks. It’s okay. It happens. :/
Anyway, here’s cotton candy for Sterek! ~1300 words.
{{ on ao3: Not On The First Date }}
Stiles takes Derek to the amusement park because it’s just about the cheesiest date he can think of and if Derek isn’t serious, he’ll bail.
It may sound like a strange plan, but when Derek had agreed to go out with him, Stiles had been ninety percent sure he was joking and Stiles is not about to let other people make him look the fool. He does that well enough on his own, thanks.
But Derek had let Stiles come pick him up in the Jeep and had given him a Look when Stiles told him where they were going…but he had still gone. He hadn’t even complained. Which is maybe even more suspicious, but Stiles buys their tickets anyway.
They wander the park for about twenty minutes and Stiles rambles about how all the games are rigged because he doesn’t know what else to do, but then Derek takes his hand as they’re walking and he stops mid-sentence. Mid-step.
Derek raises a questioning eyebrow at him.
Oh. So that’s how they were playing it. Yeah. It’s fine. He’s got this.
Derek points to one of the old-fashioned games where you have to knock down the bottles. “That one.”
“What?” Stiles turns, his mind briefly setting off alarm bells when he feels the tug of Derek’s hand in his own.
“Let’s go do that one.”
“Were you not listening to a word I said?” Stiles whines, but then he’s met with an incredulous look.
“I’m a werewolf,” Derek deadpans and Stiles swallows.
It isn’t like Stiles had forgotten, but he hadn’t exactly put two and two together. He gestures Derek toward the rip-off with surprisingly high expectations, super strength in mind, and Derek pulls him along until Stiles syncs up their steps. It’s oddly gratifying.
When the kid working the booth tells them it’ll be five bucks, Derek looks to Stiles, who rolls his eyes.
“Aren’t you rich?” he mutters, but he shells out the cash anyway.
Stiles is impressed with the way Derek looks like he’s considering the toss, like he’s uncertain, but then the corner of his mouth twitches up and he throws the ball so hard it bursts, bringing everything else down with it, the bottles and the table they may or may not have been attached to and— Wow.
The kid looks terrified, but Stiles is so in awe of his date—his date?—that he doesn’t bother trying to reassure him.
“Holy god,” Stiles mutters, barely aware of Derek as he stares at the carnage of the booth.
But then he’s being nudged and glances down to dimly process the fact that Derek is pushing a big, green stuffed animal into his arms. Stiles blinks. He holds the thing up to examine it and raises his eyebrows quizzically. “A frog?”
“They don’t have wolves,” Derek says and he’s… He’s teasing Stiles. But he looks like he’s genuinely having fun and Stiles may have been uncertain about the sincerity of their date up until this point, but no longer.
“Alright, big guy,” and he takes Derek’s hand again, pleased when Derek squeezes his hand just a little after they’re linked, “no more traumatizing the workers. They’ve got it bad enough as it is.” He gestures to the rollercoaster with his unattached hand, although it must look ridiculous since he’s holding onto the frog.
“That death trap?” Derek asks, but when Stiles nods and starts dragging him toward the rollercoaster, much as he had dragged Stiles toward the booth, he goes with it.
The line for the coaster is pretty bad, but Derek is in a surprisingly talkative mood, and they’re only half-arguing. Their fingers are more loosely tangled as they traverse they wait and Stiles keeps trying to flail his hands, only to find one trapped.
“Didn’t take you for a hand-holder,” he says eventually.
Derek shrugs. “Why not?”
Stiles balks, but then actually considers it. “The threats,” he decides. “You know, all the talk of punching me and ripping out my throat and… Yeah, hand-holding never occurred to me.”
Head tilted, Derek stares him down and Stiles gets to look at Derek like he’s the ridiculous one. Because he totally is.
Derek actually blushes. “I like holding hands. And winning you stuffed animals. I like all that stupid romantic stuff.”
“Huh.” He grins and it’s positively evil. He shoves the frog into Derek, who grabs it because he has no other choice, and pulls out his phone. “First date selfie,” he explains.
“You know my eyes will ruin the picture, right?”
“So close ’em,” Stiles commands and, with, a sigh, Derek does.
Stiles snaps the picture and it’s only another minute before they’re being loaded onto the coaster. “You think you can hold onto Naveen?”
“‘Naveen’?” Derek questions.
“Yeah, the handsome prince from The Princess and the Frog who’s kind of a douche until he realizes how to be better.”
Stiles can see Derek wondering whether or not to read into the comment, but he doesn’t further explain. He does, however, laugh uproariously—until the wind rips it out of him—as Derek grips the safety bar so hard it dents with one hand and the other crushes Naveen to his side.
Stumbling off, Stiles feels like he could fall over and it has nothing to do with the way the ground lurches beneath him. He makes them stop in front of the photos and points to the one of him and Derek. Well, it has to be him and Derek with the blinding glare it’s got on it. He takes a picture with his phone.
“Why?” Derek asks.
“The memory,” Stiles responds, and he turns to smile a softer smile at Derek.
The rest of the evening is filled with moments like that, and a lot more casual hand-holding. By the end of it, Stiles feels weird dropping Derek back off because if he’s not gripping Derek’s hand or the steering wheel, what is he supposed to be doing?
“Next time, I choose the place,” Derek tells him as they stand awkwardly next to the Jeep.
“Next time?” Stiles asks, even though he had been pretty sure there would be after they shared that churro and it had seemed like Derek was about two seconds from kissing him. Kissing him. Yeah. That’s a good thought.
“Next time,” Derek assures and almost gives in as Stiles leans closer, but places a hand to Stiles’s chest instead. “I don’t kiss on the first date.”
Stiles splutters, then catches himself. “Tomorrow?”
Derek quirks an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk forming. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”
Stiles watches as Derek saunters—actually saunters—away and sighs. “Tomorrow,” he mutters to himself. “I am so gonna get kissed.”
~
Stiles drives Scott to Deaton’s the next morning because his bike is out of commission. They’re there a little early and Stiles has broken the news that he won’t be able to pick Scott up since he’s working until the evening. He doesn’t say it’s because he needs to get ready for whatever date Derek plans, but it’s still too early to talk about that anyway.
“Oh, yeah. I need to call my mom,” Scott says. He frantically pats his pockets and Stiles hands his over without a word.
But then Scott is holding it, hesitating.
“What?” Stiles asks.
Scott holds up Stiles’s phone, the lockscreen bright and…well, the right word is probably incriminating, but Stiles hadn’t realized when he gave Scott his phone.
“Oh.”
“Is that Derek?” Scott turns the phone back to his own face, squints at it. “Is he eating cotton candy?”
“Y-es?” Stiles squeaks, peeks over Scott’s shoulder to glimpse the phone again. “And yes.”
“Did you go on a date?” Scott asks. “With Derek?”
Stiles bites his lip, takes one more solid look at his lockscreen. “Yes.”
He thinks Scott might say something shitty. He and Derek haven’t been the best of friends, after all, but instead Scott smiles. “Are there more pictures?”
Stiles was born with the phases of the moon tattooed down his spine. Most of the earliest pictures of his existence were of him laying on his stomach with his back on display. Sometimes he was on his father, sometimes on his mother, sometimes sleeping, sometimes not. As he grew older, he would wonder what it meant.
He would wonder whether his soulmate would be whimsical and free-spirited. Whether it meant his soulmate would be prone to pessimism and hopeless thoughts and contemplations about the vastness of the universe. Whether they would know all the constellations and prefer the darkness to light. Whether they would be brilliant in a soft, muted way, or ever-changing, or have the ability to make slow but constant impact on vast things, the way the moon affected the ocean.
Stiles would lay awake at night wondering.
Why the moon?
And when Scott got bitten, he laughed until he cried. And then laughed some more.
-
Derek grew up knowing his soulmate had an insatiable curiosity and an extremely short attention span.
Images flitted over his skin constantly.
Peter teased him about having a soulmate so entirely different from him. Someone capricious, that tended to lean toward dangerous things.
He howled with laughter when a wolf settled onto Derek’s skin, only to replaced by a panther the very next day.
Even if Derek were at all inclined to tell his uncle secrets the man hadn’t already figured out for himself, he still would never have explained that the wolf had simply moved from his bicep to curl up with its head on its paws just underneath his collar bone.
Peter found out anyway, because it was impossible for two wolves in the same pack to never see each other shirtless at the very least. Peter waited for the wolf to really disappear so he could tease, but had to content himself with mocking the way the wolf shrunk until it was just a small little thing in the pocket of Derek’s shoulder.
But his scathing comments barely registered to Derek, because it was what let him know that when his soulmate truly loved something they never let it go.
-
A cello appeared on Stiles. At first, it was a lovely instrument. The burnished teak color contrasted beautifully with his pale skin. The bow leaned gracefully against the cello, and one could almost hear the soft strains of soothing music.
And then one day, not that long after its first appearance, the instrument had snapped strings and warped wood. The hair of the bow lost its sheen and was cut in half to hang loosely. There were deep gouges.
Stiles didn’t realize they were claw marks until much, much later.
-
Derek had a sand castle on his skin. It looked like a child’s drawing of a sand castle mostly.
Did his soulmate love the beach? Did it represent a cherished memory?
Derek had the sense it had to be something specific. He felt that if it was about his soulmate loving the beach, he would be marked with something representing the ocean.
They seemed like that to him. Tempestuous and wild. Ever-changing. A chaotic surface and boundless depths. Peter said making assumptions about his soulmate would only lead to disappointment.
Still, Derek wondered if ocean waves ever appeared on his soulmate’s skin.
-
Siles had a basketball on him. He wondered whether his soulmate was on a team or whether they just liked the game. Did they play for their school? Was it something for fun, just to let loose?
What if they were more athletic than him? It wouldn't exactly be hard after all. Stiles could already tell he was going to grow up scrawny with barely any muscle at all. He wondered if his soulmate would laugh at how different they were.
-
“Your soulmate is so weird,” Laura murmured. Her eyes were on the picture of a brain scan that colored Derek’s skin.
Derek shrugged. He thought the same thing, though with much more fondness than Laura did.
Peter stared for a while, but didn’t say anything. Not even the slightest teasing comment.
Laura and Derek shared a glance.
“What is it?” Derek asked.
“Nothing,” Peter said with a casual shrug. “It’s probably not their brain.”
Laura’s spine went straight. She placed a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “What if it was?” she demanded to know.
Peter shook his head. “All I know is the colors are in the wrong places.”
Derek tried to convince himself that his soulmate was just learning something new, had found some new obsession to explore with their boundless curiosity. But the days passed by and the scan didn’t move or shrink or fade.
Derek was torn about how to feel.
Because if the scan didn’t belong to his soulmate, it certainly belonged to someone they loved dearly.
-
There was a necklace on a bed of purple flowers.
After research, Stiles figured out it was aconite.
Wolfsbane.
He didn’t really understand the necklace. But the wolfsbane made him wonder. Was his soulmate into mythical lore? Or was this some kind of oblique reference to being poisoned?
The way the necklace was settled into the petals, the subtle twist of the chain. It seemed intimate. Stiles thought of poison and how love could hurt. He thought of his obsession with wolves in the fifth grade. He wondered.
Stiles knew a lot about werewolves long before his best friend became one. And he wasn’t that surprised they existed. Not really.
-
There was a star on his skin. It appeared not long after the brain scan faded. It wasn't gone, but the colors had lost their luster in a way that made Derek think whoever it represented was gone forever.
The star was big, five pointed, and gold. It looked like a sheriff star from old western movies. Unlike most other things that appeared the star never grew smaller. It was in a strange minority with the brain scan and the sandcastle. In fact, sometimes the star would even grow bigger.
But it lost some of its brilliance over the years. It was difficult to explain how the image had its own overall vibrancy that stayed the same, and even grew at times, but the star itself got a bit dull. A bit scuffed, the points not as sharp.
Derek wondered if the star represented a person. If it was that person that was deteriorating. Or if his soulmate’s perception of them was becoming disillusioned.
-
Stiles woke up with a symbol on his chest one day. It was a triskele, he found. It seemed different than his other marks somehow. More vivid. A deep red in the center that faded to black. He would get caught up staring at it in the mirror.
He would think of the broken cello, the intimate poison, and this symbol pulsing blood red in the center like a weeping wound.
He knew his soulmate had been hurt. Was still hurting.
His dad caught sight of his chest one day and paused with wide eyes.
“There is something different about it!” Stiles exclaimed.
John checked his expression, but it was too late.
“Your soulmate got a tattoo,” he said.
Stiles blinked at him. “Tattoos show up?”
“Not always,” John said, “Not usually.”
Stiles stared at his father, trying to beam the full force of his curiosity out of his eyes.
John sighed. “Stiles, I told you to stop doing that. You look demented.”
Stiles shrugged. It worked to get him the information he wanted more often than not, so it was all good as far as he was concerned.
John studied his son. Stiles would only go look it up himself if John didn’t tell him. “Tattoos don't usually show up unless the bond is particularly strong.”
Stiles began to smile. It faded when he took a closer look at his dad’s expression.
“Isn’t that good?” he asked uncertainly.
John shook his head. “Intensity isn’t always a good thing when it comes to soulmate relationships.”
Stiles thought of the case descriptions that had trickled through to him over the years. Vicious abuse cycles. Codependency. Murders because of jealousy. Suicides because someone’s soulmate died.
He nodded at his dad to show he understood.
Intensity wasn’t always a good thing.
“Will it be on the same place on them?” he asked.
“Not necessarily,” John said. “It might not even be that color.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.
Over time, he found out the triskele absolutely would not be the same color, since the outer edges seemed to change according to his soulmate’s most prevalent and constant mood.
The center always stayed that fresh-cut red.
-
Derek didn't like Stiles when they first met. He knew his own inability to protect people. He didn't want someone like Stiles involved in what was going on. Someone so pretty and fragile, with such wide innocent eyes.
He soon learned Stiles was beautiful like the ocean, and even less likely to be tamed.He had a steel spine, an iron will, and those innocent eyes sparked with fiery passion at the slightest provocation.
Derek knew the dangers of fire by now, knew how easy it was to get burned. And yet there he still was, drawn like a moth, fluttering at the edges of a light he knew he was not allowed to have. A light that would only deepen the darkness around him, in him, if it were ever to go out.
The most he would allow himself was a slight suspicion and a resolute indifference to confirmation.
-
Stiles suspected Derek Hale was his soulmate from that first time in the woods. Even though Derek clearly didn’t like him, everything about the man made Stiles hum. From his cheekbones to his hostile glare, his leather jacket to his surprisingly soft voice.
And then he thought Derek was a murderer and he was still pretty sure, but he was hoping he was wrong because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life hiding bodies.He would do it, and more, for his soulmate but he didn't actually want to.
Stiles would always be surprised at his own reaction when he found out for sure.
He saw the triskele first, right in the center of Derek’s back.
Stiles had the fleeting thought of how they would match up and maybe Derek preferred being the little spoon, before the wolf turned around.
Stiles caught sight of his mom’s brain scan and mentally noped the fuck out. He stayed mostly silent through the following interaction, as blank as he could possibly be out of sheer self-preservation.
He didn’t have a panic attack until he got home.
It was hours later when Scott called him to assure him that just because they both had triskeles didn’t mean Derek was Stiles’s soulmate. They weren’t even the same color or in the same place.
-
In the end it was Boyd who spilled the beans, though Jackson was the trigger.
“Shut the hell up, Stilinski. Who wants to listen to you? You can't even get your soulmate to look twice at you. You really think he doesn't know it's you? That he's not ignoring you on purpose because he would rather have anyone but you?”
Stiles went white. He stared at Jackson for a moment and then promptly left, pointedly not looking at anyone else in the room. Derek slowly turned to stare at Jackson with crimson eyes until the young wolf left also.
After a drawn out moment of silence, Boyd said, “You're the reason he can throw shit like that in Stiles’s face.”
Derek looked at him with wide eyes, the confirmation he hadn't wanted suddenly given to him.
But he had a different perspective of his reticence as selfishness now, and he couldn't bear the hurt he could clearly see he had caused his soulmate. The sense of embarrassment and shame lingered where Stiles had been standing.
-
Stiles made it home only to find Derek in his room waiting to command him to take his shirt off.
“Fuck off, Derek Hale. Get out of my room.”
“Stiles,” Derek said standing from where he was leaning against the window sill. He stared intently at the human boy. “Take off your shirt.”
Stiles wanted to argue. He wanted to demand an explanation for why Derek had come here, now, to order him to do this. He wanted to yell some more, tell Derek to get out and to not expect to see him for at least two weeks. But he was tired of knowing who he belonged to and knowing that person didn't want him back without getting to say anything at all about it. If Derek wanted to have it all out right here, right now, then that's what they would do.
So he took off his shirt. And he watched as Derek took in his own life and love and hurts on Stiles's skin. He could practically see Derek thinking, “It's true.” But he wasn't prepared for the wolf to just whip his own shirt off. He’d seen Derek shirtless before, but it was different now.
Now it was to prove that they were made for each other. That they'd been marked by what made each other.
“Why didn't you say anything?” Derek asked.
“What was I supposed to say?” Stiles scoffed, “You didn't even like me when we first met.”
Derek looked away. Of course Stiles knew that.
“Plus, I thought you were a murderer,” Stiles added.
Derek raised an eyebrow. They both knew that point didn’t matter nearly as much as it probably should have.
“I love you,” Derek said.
Stiles scoffed at him again. He shook his head and looked up at the ceiling with pursed lips like he was trying to hold back laughter. Or tears. When he looked at Derek again, he was smirking, but his eyes were bleak.
“Because I’m your soulmate?”
“Because I love you.”
Stiles closed his eyes. This was too much.
“Derek,” he murmured brokenly. He opened his eyes and his soulmate was right there in front of him, close enough to touch.
Derek reached up and cupped his cheek.
“I love you, Stiles,” he said.
Stiles gave up fighting, and fell into his other half.
-
They found each other, and all their questions were answered.
It was quiet when Stiles snuck back to the Hale house, the clearing hushed like even nocturnal birds and animals were respecting the crime scene. He wasn’t sure why Derek would still be here, but he had a hunch. The hunch was: Derek had nowhere else to go. Even after all the terrible things that had happened in this half-acre patch of burnt woods, Derek still thought of it as home. Maybe the fresh coat of tragedy and gunpowder would be enough to make the idea of sleeping here less appealing than hunting for an apartment—if Derek stayed in Beacon Hills at all. That thought had hit him like a ball of ice, had burned through his exhaustion and driven him back here, to the most recent setting of his future nightmares.
The creak of the porch steps made him freeze, skin taut over racing blood, even as he reminded himself that Derek would have heard him coming a mile away. He took another step, then two, past the gaping front door ragged with bullet holes.
Stiles cleared his throat, as if that could keep his voice from cracking. “Derek?”
Silence was his only answer, but it was a particular quality of silence, one that Stiles had become pretty well acquainted with. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
“Hey,” Stiles said to the stiff shadow above the stairs. The dull gleam of unearthly red slowly expanded from slits as the new alpha’s eyes opened just enough to glare at him.
“Go home,” Derek said.
“I went,” Stiles said. He’d changed, showered, picked up the spare key for the jeep, and made Jackson ferry him back to the parking garage where Peter had threatened and abandoned him, a lifetime ago. Jackson had been white-knuckled and silent the entire way; small mercies. That wouldn’t last. “Now, I’m back.”
The red eyes vanished, and Stiles heard a soft thump as Derek dropped his head back against the wall. “Why.”
“Um.” Stiles kind of wanted to step further in and close the door behind him, but he wasn’t sure normal house etiquette applied to half-torched, bloodstained, bullet-riddled husks. He shuffled in place. “So. You’re the alpha.”
Silence.
“How’s that… going,” he tried.
The silence somehow gave him the impression that if he had werewolf powers, he’d hear Derek grinding his teeth.
“I just ask because… well. The last guy who was the alpha, he was… how do I say this? Nuts. Totally nuts.”
“Stiles.”
“He was so nuts that the drive to make a pack had him immediately deciding that his number one priority was to bite literally the first asshole he ran into, which was Scott. And you saw how that turned out for him. Not to mention, the whole string of murders afterwards was murder on—on my dad.”
Silence.
“So you see where I’m going with this.”
The red eyes flared again, brighter. The upper floor creaked dangerously as Derek leaned forward. “Are you asking?”
“I—.” Despite the open door at his back and that half the house was ripped open to the woods, Stiles felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. He took a few deep breaths. Licked his lips. “What?”
“Are. You. Asking.”
“For—am I asking for the bite?”
“Yes, Stiles. Are you asking for the bite.”
“No!”
“Then why are you here?” The eyes rose gracefully as Derek stood up to loom harder, brightening as they caught more light, or Stiles’s eyes adjusted. Or maybe the glow burned hotter as Derek got pissed.
“I just came to check on you! God! I don’t want you to bite me, but I—”
“That’s a lie.”
Stiles felt his heart leap into his throat, shook his head against the memory of Peters teeth against his wrist. “You can listen to my heartbeat from all the way up there? That’s—ha. Freaky alpha hearing.” The sudden sweat on the back of his neck was clammy as he wiped it away.
“Stiles,” Derek snapped, and whatever it was that always drew Stiles’s attention no matter how scattered, like a magnet, like a lightning bolt, it was stronger now. It rang inside him, echoing, reverberating, so that one word had him reeling like a struck tuning fork, answering before he could catch his breath.
“I’m not—it’s not a lie. I mean, who doesn’t want superpowers, right? But I—You said it could kill me.” And so had Peter. “I can’t do that to my dad, Derek. I can’t leave him alone.”
The palpable cloud of menace slowly receded. The red vanished. “Okay,” Derek said, strangely subdued.
Stiles gaped into the darkness, thrown by the simple acceptance. But. Derek knew something about being left.
So Stiles barreled on, rather than let either of them dwell on it. “That’s a yes on the instincts, I guess. If you’re just handing out wolf bites to whoever drops by.”
“Laura fought it for years,” Derek said, and even from the upper story, it felt close. Confessional. “I’ll—I can control it.” From how he was struggling to even say it, Stiles was skeptical.
“She had a pack,” Stiles pointed out. “She had you.”
Silence.
Stiles licked his lips again, heart pounding. Closed his eyes. “I know you can have humans in a pack. I know—your family had humans. And I’ve been in Scott’s pack. Since. So far.” Derek made a dark, derisive noise, and Stiles hurried to finish before he got angry again, or laughed. “If it’s okay that I’m human—that I stay human, I could—I would—"
He barely registered the shriek of the bannister as Derek leapt over, or the displaced rush of air. The solid landing, on the weakened floorboards right in front of him, almost brought Stiles to his knees. “Whoa, hey—"
“Don’t joke about this,” Derek said, eyes like a banked fire, too close to look away from, close enough that Stiles could feel the raw heat of him, breathed in the animal musk and ash and—pond scum, weirdly, like he’d jumped in a lake. His palm was hot through Stiles’s thin t-shirt, shoving him back against the wall, splayed fingers digging in like he could pick Stiles up like a basketball, like he could tear out his heart, and maybe he could. “Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,” he said, but it sounded like he was the one torn open, bleeding out. This close, the darkness weak between them, Stiles could see the wildness, the fear, that his whole façade was made up of cracks, barely strung together. Stiles realized with a jolt that if he pushed him just right, dug his fingers into the sensitive places, he could make Derek shatter.
Somehow, that made it easier to rest his hand over Derek’s, to lightly press that trembling power even closer to his heart. “I mean it,” Stiles said, meeting his eyes, steady, strong. “I want to be in your pack.”
Derek’s fingers spasmed hard enough that Stiles was pretty sure he’d have bruises in the morning, and the air between them was full again of that pressure Derek had reeled in earlier, the weight of his power. The scarce inches separating them were charged with a turbulent potential that Stiles could almost feel like static on his skin. Slowly, carefully, eyes burning, Derek leaned closer. Stiles had to bite his lip and try not to hyperventilate, couldn’t help but glance down at his mouth as it opened, and he couldn’t keep in a gasp when the edge of Derek’s teeth shone in reflected starlight. The fangs. The fangs. His heart kicked into higher gear and he struggled, on instinct, lashing out, but of course he was stuck, trapped, pinned like a bug, like an idiot—
“Ssh,” Derek murmured, gentle, around his huge fucking fangs. “You have to submit.”
Stiles threw his head back with a high, sharp laugh, because what did that even mean? and then his whole body was shuddering, beyond his control, because Derek’s fangs were on him, on his neck, the barest pressure around his pounding jugular. “Ssh,” Derek said again, and the soft brush of his lips sparked a different kind of shudder entirely, the adrenaline and the heat and the way his skin always leapt to Derek’s touch crashing against each other in a way that was consuming, and mortifying, and entirely not his fault.
“Okay,” Stiles said, sucking in a deep breath, willing it to be true. “Okay, we’re doing this now. This is happening.” He squeezed his eyes shut, unclenched his abused muscles one by one until he could slump against the wall, let Derek take his weight as his warm breath dampened Stiles’s neck. Derek, the bastard, only hummed, giving him yet another sensation to try not to react to. “Ugh.” Not sure what to do with his arms, he tried awkwardly setting one on Derek’s gently heaving shoulder, wrapping the other around in an uncomfortable kind of hug.
Eventually, teeth that had gone human-blunt pulled back entirely, and Derek kind of stiffened. Stiles magnanimously decided to ignore Derek’s embarrassment as he came back to himself.
“You are rank, dude. Did you go run through a swamp?” he said instead, and the tension in his shoulders slowly deflated.
“Lake,” Derek admitted. “Shut up.” He nuzzled into the curve of Stiles’s shoulder a little, like he could do it stealthily. “Pack members should respect the alpha.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah? Well, you’ve met me, so if that was a requirement, you shouldn’t have said yes.” He risked a condescending pat on the head, Derek’s hair thick under his fingers. “I don’t think I could respect anyone who smells this fucking terrible.” He ignored Derek’s grumble. “If we’re going to get anyone else to join this pack, you’ll have to shower. Like, regularly.”
The scrape of Derek’s stubble on the delicate skin of his neck sent shivers all the way to his toes, and he felt Derek’s toothy grin in response.
This was either the best or the worst idea he’d ever had.
In no particular order:1. Mates. Predestined. 2. Ceremonies of all kinds3. A/B/O4. Fluff. More Fluff.5. Arranged Marriage (unless you wanna call that a ceremony, too?)Bonus (what I’ll never write):Pure anthropomorFic.I just can’t help being predictable!
siriusstufff replied to your post “That nogitsune/Derek should be tagged for non con or rape, not dub...”
@sterekshaven I'm so sorry you're left feeling this way! Please don't let an anon with obvious anger issues and no manners make you doubt yourself. You are so conscientious about tags and triggers I've learned to ask myself "What would Smowkie tag?" whenever I write anything outside my usual fluffy stuff.
jennoasis replied to your post “That nogitsune/Derek should be tagged for non con or rape, not dub...”
This pissed me off to no end. They had no right to say it like that, no right at all.
Thank you both so much ♥
I always try to tag triggers and stuff, I know I fuck up and miss stuff, partly because I forget and partly because I don’t know, but I always try, and it’s very nice to know it’s appreciated =D ♥
I do feel, well, not better about it, but less affected by it? Because I have gotten a few messages like these, which I am so incredibly thankful for. It’s good to know you have my back ♥
