Clark panic-adopts his teenage clones, pls, I am loving that one lately!
“Well, there’s definitely flannel in here,” Superman says wryly as he blurs into the kitchen with a pair of battered old cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other in his hands. Jonathan and Martha are clearly used to sudden appearances from him and don’t so much as twitch, but Thirteen jolts in his seat. Match locks his TTK in tight around his muscles on the same startle reflex, so he doesn’t jolt.
A gift for @moretomhardy for the @thewitchersecretsanta
Happy New Year! You mentioned you like mutual pining and hurt!Geralt, so I hope you enjoy this 😄
Title: restless
Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier
Rating: T
Tags: No Archive Warnings Apply, Hurt/Comfort, Pining, Touch Starved, Headaches, Pre-Slash
Word Count: 1.5k
Summary: Geralt doesn't always have the words to ask for what he needs, but Jaskier is ready to help him anyway.
Read on AO3
Excerpt:
It has been a long day, and the sun has not yet begun to set. Every bit of sunshine that makes it through the trees seems to pierce Geralt’s skull. It is always agony to take his potions in the daylight, but he’d had no choice. His heightened senses are beginning to wear off, but not quickly enough.
Jaskier walks the trail ahead of him and hums lightly, occasionally trying out a few lyrics or strumming a chord on his lute.
For a while, Geralt closes his eyes and walks beside Roach. He trusts her to keep him steady while he gives into the urge to rest his eyes. They follow the soft musical sounds as Jaskier leads the way until Geralt can no longer stand the sharp pain in his head.
He opens his eyes and is grateful to see that dusk will soon darken the sky. For now, the light is nothing less than a dagger between the eyes. Geralt grunts and tugs at Roach's reins to halt their journey.
“Jaskier,” he barks, teeth clenched against the renewed pain behind his eyes. “Time to make camp.” He waves a hand to one side of the path. “There.”
Jaskier turns on his heel, but continues to walk the trail backwards. "Isn't it rather early to-"
Geralt ignores him and turns abruptly to lead Roach where they need to go. He wants to rest, and not just meditate either, but sleep properly through a whole night and somewhere comfortable. Every year on the Path strengthened the pull of Kaer Morhen and its few but essential comforts. Despite its crumbling walls and the memories that haunt every corner, it is the one place Geralt feels at ease. He always slept better there than he does anywhere else.
He kicks a rock out of the patch of dirt he claimed as his own for the night and drops his bedroll to the ground.
"Are you hurt?" Jaskier asks as he gently places his lute next to his own bedroll. "Is that why we're making camp so early? Geralt, you should have told me, if you have a wound that needs patching we should have taken care of that before we left town."
The notification pings before Derek’s last ride has even reached her door, and he snorts as the app flashes his match. “Head to pick up Mieczyslaw (Stiles) now..”
He’s not surprised when the phone lights up with a call a moment later. He waves goodbye to the woman he’d dropped off as he pulls away, letting the call come through the Bluetooth piece in his ear.
“You know you have to pay for that ride now, right?” he says in lieu of a greeting.
“That’s alright,” Stiles says, and Derek can hear the smirk in his voice. “I just so happen to be sleeping with this guy who is like…obscenely rich. And loves paying for anything I need.”
“Is that so?” Derek snorts in response. “You’ll have to introduce me to him.”
“You’re not stealing my sugar daddy!” Stiles laughs.
He goes into the chorus of Jolene before Derek can stop him, and Derek lets it go on for longer than he really should before butting in.
“Calm down, Dolly,” he says. “Your extravagant lifestyle is safe. You’ll be kept in the finest pizza and hipster beer that Beacon Hills has to offer.”
“I was just getting into it!” Stiles protests, but Derek can tell he’s smiling.
“Where are you going anyway?” Derek asks, keeping his eyes on the moderately busy road in front of him as he heads towards their house.
“Doesn’t your app show you?” Stiles asks, and Derek can hear him huffing as he settles down on the front porch steps to wait.
“Not until I actually pick you up,” Derek says. “How’d you even manage to match with me? I was ten minutes away.”
“I….” Stiles hedges, “I might have cancelled like six other rides until I got you.”
“Stiles.”
“Derek.”
“Honestly,” Stiles says, “I’m surprised it worked.”
Derek just laughs before pausing as something occurs to him.
“Wait,” he asks, “why aren’t you driving yourself? Did the Jeep break down again?”
“The thing is,” Stiles says, and oh boy, Derek knows that tone.
“What did you do?” he says.
“Always with the lack of question-mark tone,” Stiles says, ignoring the question.
His breath hitches on the last word, and Derek’s mood abruptly goes from teasing to worried.
“Are you hurt? Did somebody get through the wards?”
“I’m ok,” Stiles says quickly, trying to reassure the panicking werewolf. “Nobody attacked, nobody got through the wards. I just had an unfortunate encounter with a rickety chair and the kitchen floor.”
“Shit, babe,” Derek says, turning down the road towards their house, going a little faster than he should, but he can’t be bothered to care. “What did you…”
He asks the question as he pulls up to the house, but it’s answered before he even has to finish it. In his ear, the Bluetooth beeps as Stiles ends the call, dropping his phone into his left pocket, fumbling slightly as he does so. His right arm is tucked close to his chest in what looks like a makeshift sling from a sacrificed t-shirt.
Stiles waves with his good hand, grinning wanly despite the pain Derek can now see on his face.
Sighing, Derek clicks the “ride started” button on his app and leans over to open the door of the Camaro for Stiles. Realizing Stiles won’t be able to shut the door, Derek hops out and goes over to the passenger side, where he’s met with Stiles’ big sad eyes as he too realizes his predicament.
“Come on,” he says to Stiles, getting him settled into the car and buckling the seatbelt across his lap, letting the chest piece stay behind Stiles so he doesn’t hurt him further.
“Why didn’t you just call me normally?” he asks. “I would’ve stopped working and picked you up right away.”
Stiles shrugs one-shouldered. “Mostly wanted to distract you from worrying about me until the last minute. It was dumb.”
“Not dumb,” Derek says, “I thought it was funny, right up until I realized you were hurt.”
Stiles just frowns and doesn’t say anything as Derek closes the door gently.
When they’re settled and back on the road, Stiles gives a deep sigh and looks over at Derek, who is driving as smoothly as possible so as not to jostle the broken bone.
“Well, this sucks,” he says. “I hate the hospital.”
“I know,” Derek says, sympathetically. He stops at a red light and reaches over to clasp Stiles’ broken arm gently, leeching as much of the pain as he can before the light turns green and he needs his hand back to shift gears.
“Ahh,” Stiles sighs, happily this time. “That’s the good stuff right there. I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
He rests his head back against the seat and closes his eyes, the tightness of his eyes visibly loosening, much to Derek’s relief.
“There’s also all the pizza and beer,” Derek teases.
“Mmmhm,” Stiles agrees, sleepily. “And also your butt. I love your butt.”
“You’ve made that known many times,” Derek laughs. “Hey, did you hit your head at all? I don’t want you falling asleep if you have a concussion.”
“Nuh-uh,” Stiles says, shaking his head slightly. “My arm broke my fall. And then broke…itself.”
“Were you using one of the chairs your dad gave us that creaks even when tiny Lydia sits on it?”
Stiles says nothing, feigning sleep.
“I can hear your heartbeat and your breathing, asshole,” Derek says, reaching over to smack Stiles’ knee without taking his eyes off the road.
“Ugh,” Stiles says. “Fine. Yes, I was using the chair that’s older than Dad. And yes, it decided my very manly muscled body was just too much for it to bear, and yes, one of the legs snapped and yes I fell victim to gravity and my own damn hubris. Happy?”
“Very manly muscled body?” Derek asks, smirking.
“You love my manly muscled body,” Stiles says without opening his eyes. He does, however, stick his tongue out at Derek as if he was 5 years on, not nearly 27.
“I do,” Derek allows, and he turns his head away from the road for just a moment to shoot a grin to Stiles.
“And of course I’m not happy you got hurt,” he says. “Just trying to keep you distracted until we get to the ER.”
“I know,” Stiles says, softly. “I appreciate it.”
Derek hums in response, only to laugh out loud a moment later.
“What?” Stiles asks, opening his eyes at the sudden outburst and looking over at Derek with wide eyes.
“Melissa is going to lose it when she finds out you were bested by a piece of furniture,” Derek responds, still chuckling to himself slightly.
Stiles groans.
“We’re here,” Derek says, pulling in to park and ending the ride on the Uber app, before signing out of it for the day before he can get another request.
Once they’re parked and ready to get out, Derek takes a little bit more of Stiles’ pain, just enough to get him through the sure to be long wait at the emergency room.
Stiles leans into Derek slightly with his good side and sighs in relief again.
“Definitely giving you a 5 star rating.”
A few hours and one hand-to-elbow cast later, they’re finally on their way home, a prescription for painkillers in the glovebox, and the promise of a delivery dinner on the horizon.
“At least I can still do most things left-handed,” Stiles says, in much better spirits now that his broken arm is set and the mild painkillers the hospital gave him have kicked in.
“And it’s a good thing you can walk to work from the house,” Derek adds.
“You mean my dearest darling wolfy wouldn’t drive me to work?” Stiles asks, batting his eyes over at Derek in an exaggerated motion.
Derek just rolls his eyes.
“It’s a 10 minute walk, Stiles,” he says. “You didn’t break your legs.”
“It’s cold in the mornings!” Stiles protests.
“We live in California,” Derek counters, smirking.
“Northern California!” Stiles objects. “You know very well it gets cold here!”
Derek shrugs, just to annoy him. “It’s not cold to me.”
“We don’t all have magical weather accommodating werewolf bodies!” Stiles huffs, wishing he could cross his arms against his chest.
Derek turns into their driveway and parks before grinning and letting his eyes flash red as he turns to Stiles.
“You could,” he says, flashing red again for dramatic effect before letting his eyes go back to normal.
“Don’t tempt me,” Stiles says, groaning again as he looks down at his arm and thinks about how very annoying the next 6 to 8 weeks are going to be.
“Offer is always open,” Derek says, leaning over to unbuckle Stiles’ seatbelt. He tilts to place his mouth on the juncture of Stile’s throat and shoulder, biting down lightly with blunt teeth.
He smirks internally at the way Stiles’ heartbeat rises, and the smell of arousal that practically sizzles from his suddenly heated skin.
“No fair,” Stiles whines. “Getting me all worked up when I can’t be…vigorous.”
Derek laughs and pulls away before they end up having a wobbly version of car sex in the driveway. Again.
“We’ll just have to go slow then,” Derek says.
“Hell, yeah,” Stiles says, raising his good arm up in a triumphant fist pump. “We’ll Boyz II Men the fuck out of tonight!”
“Please don’t sing,” Derek says, but it’s too late.
“I’ll make love to you!” Stiles belts, “Like you want me to!”
Derek doesn’t know much about music, to be fair, but he can tell that Stiles isn’t remotely in the same neighborhood of the right key.
“I don’t know why I love you,” he says, even as he’s helping Stiles out of the car and into the house.
“My superior singing skills,” Stiles says. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” Derek says dryly, but he can’t help but smile at Stiles.
“Cash money!” Stiles calls out in delight as their white long-haired cat pads into view, sniffing at the air delicately.
“Meow?” she chirps up at Stiles, swishing her tail softly.
“She says her name isn’t Cash Money,” Derek says, sharing a conspiratorial look with Cashmere.
“You don’t speak cat!” Stiles protests.
“I’m versed in all woodland creatures,” Derek replies, completely straight-faced, only breaking out into laughter when the reference hits Stiles and he starts to laugh.
“Ok, Kronk,” he says, leaning down to give Cashmere scritches.
She arches up into it for a brief moment before trotting off to do whatever she does during the 80% of her life where she wants nothing to do with them.
“Pizza?” he asks Derek, who already has his phone out and is tapping away on one of the delivery apps.
“Soon,” Derek promises, holding up his phone to show the order has been accepted.
“Then careful sex!” Stiles declares, before his mouth cracks open in a huge yawn.
“Or maybe sleep,” Derek says, arching a single eyebrow in amusement.
“Mmm,” Stiles says, reaching out to Derek with his good hand. “I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
Derek laughs and pulls Stiles back against his chest, tucking an arm around his left side and hooking a thumb into the loop on Stiles’ jeans.
“After dinner, we’ll put that super sexy cast bag on your arm so we can shower. I’ll even wash your hair.”
“Ugh,” Stiles says, wrinkling his nose at himself. “That shouldn’t turn me on. And yet.”
“And yet,” Derek agrees. “And then we’ll get into bed and I’ll let you make me watch The Witcher for the tenth time.”
“Don’t be jealous of how sexy Geralt is,” Stiles chides, leaning his head back onto Derek’s shoulder so Derek can rub his cheek along his neck.
“I could take him,” Derek huffs.
“Yes, dear,” Stiles says, eyes closed and swaying gently as Derek rocks them in place.
“Can he full-shift into a wolf?” Derek asks. “No,” he says, answering his own question resolutely.
“Not a werewolf,” Stiles feels compelled to point out.
“He’s not even scary!” Derek continues, huffing again. “And his wig is bad.”
“And he should feel bad,” Stiles agrees. “Now let’s go sit down before I pass out. You can tell me all about your issues with Geralt of Rivia from the couch.”
“Gladly,” Derek says. Stiles just laughs.
Later that night, they’re clean and cozy in bed, watching Yennefer scream out her pain to the world.
“She’s gonna cause so much trouble,” Stiles says happily.
Derek considers it for a moment and nods in agreement.
“Good for her,” he says. “With a life like that, she deserves a happy ending.”
Stiles looks over at Derek from where he’s propped up against the headboard, but Derek’s full attention is still on the screen.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, smiling more than a little dopily at the man he loves. “She sure does.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV)
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd, Isaac Lahey
Additional Tags: Incubus Stiles Stilinski, Alpha Derek Hale, Bottom Derek Hale, Alternate Universe, Aftercare, even though this is not otherwise BDSM, because aftercare is the best part, Past Braeden/Derek Hale, just vaguely mentioned, Top Stiles Stilinski, Explicit Consent
Summary:
Stiles is an incubus looking for a meal and Derek is a reluctant patron of an incubus bar who can't figure out why his betas want to spend every Friday evening getting the life sucked out of them. Derek may eventually figure out why they enjoy it so much.
For the prompt thing if this happens to inspire you! Sterek: Derek is a werewolf who has lived his whole life out on a werewolf preserve in the middle of nowhere, and this is his first week of college. The first time he sees Stiles, he drops his books all over the hallway because he's /never/ smelled anyone like Stiles before.
They tried to convince Derek that he would be better off going to the local community college, but as much as he loved his family, he needed to be away. He’d lived his whole life on the preserve where the nearest town was 15 miles away, which was fine when he was younger. It took him some time to reign in his instincts, control his shift so that he didn’t transform into a werewolf at the slightest provocation. But he was 18 now, almost 19, and he could handle things on his own just fine.
He wasn’t too far, only a few hours, but it was a big college town with lots of sights and sounds and smells.
As much as he he convinced he could handle being in a new place, he has to admit it is... overwhelming.
He doesn’t feel as if he’ll shift or anything worrisome like that, but it is an overload to his senses and it gives him a headache and makes him want to stay in his room. He can’t though because classes start the next day and he still needs to go get his ID and the rest of his textbooks from the bookstore.
He pushes through and gets the rest of his supplies and rushes home to bury his head beneath his blanket that still smells like pack and home. It makes him feel a little better, but then it starts to not and he feels homesick. He refuses to call his family though because they’ve only been gone a day and he does not want them thinking they were right and Derek was better off staying at home and away from the big city.
He just has to get used to this, have the cacophony become his new normal. He can do it.
The first day of class is tough. Just stepping on to campus and smelling the mix of anxiety and excitement and nervousness mixed with cinnamon rolls and breakfast burritos and coffee makes him want to throw up. Not to mention all of the snippets of conversations he can hear as he rushes by groups of students on his way to his own class.
But, by the end of the day, he’s gotten better at tuning things out, making it all white noise as opposed to anything he tries to focus on. The cafeteria is a tough one, but he narrows in on his own tray of food and puts in headphones and it seems to work.
The next day he figures he has totally got this and nothing will faze him... that is until he walks into his American History lecture and gets a whiff of something so amazing that he drops his pile of books all over the floor... right in front of the person who smells amazing.
“Uh...” Derek starts, immediately bending down to gather his fallen books.
“Oh, hey, let me help,” the great smelling guy says, also stooping down to pick up a few loose papers that fell out of one of Derek’s books.
They both stand holding a few things and the guy gives Derek a nice smile. The guy makes to hand Derek the books he’s holding, and Derek accepts them. He looks down at the papers he gathered, and his eyes widen slightly before also handing them over.
“Wow, you’ve already done an assignment and taken notes. It’s only the second day of class!” He laughs, and Derek can feel his face redden. “Maybe I should sit by you... so the studiousness will rub off on me,” the brown-haired guy says with a grin.
“Okay,” Derek replies because honestly now that he’s smelled him, he’s not sure he’d want to sit anywhere else. It’s like he can’t smell anything else in the room, and it’s a relief really.
“I’m Stiles,” he says, holding out his hand and then wincing when he realizes Derek’s hands are full. Instead, he pats Derek on the shoulder.
“Derek. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Stiles gives him a grin and ushers him to a seat beside him.
Looks like going away to school was the right decision after all.
Summary: The Hale family has a tendency towards early marriage, and Derek and Cora are the last single holdouts from their generation. When Cora abandons Derek to endure the latest pack weekend on his own, Derek takes drastic measures to get his family off his back. He calls Enterprise.
Stiles lets himself into the old, burned-out husk of the Hale house that Derek still refuses to tear down now that he has acquired legal ownership of the property. He doesn't care if he’s going to interrupt something or not. He and Derek are going to have words.
“Derek!”
There is no verbal answer but when Stiles' eyes roam over the staircase again, Derek is standing there, barefoot.
"Ugh, man, I know werewolves are impervious to most diseases, but for my peace of mind, put on some shoes when you climb that death contraption. I don't even want to think about how quickly I'd contract tetanus if I ever set a bare foot on those stairs," Stiles groans.
Derek huffs out what could almost be accepted as an amused grunt if one was listening closely enough. Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and scowls at the older man instead of smiling stupidly at him like he kind of wants to every time he catches a glimpse of Derek's ridiculously gorgeous face.
The only response Derek has for that is to copy Stiles by also crossing his arms over his chest and scowling back at him. Stiles concedes defeat to their scowling contest after a few more seconds have passed, sighing as he runs a hand over the hair that is beginning to grow out from his signature buzzcut. Lydia practically begged him to stop scalping himself and let his hair breathe so it could grow into a hairstyle she, Erica, and Allison are all certain will suit him nicely. Stiles honestly doesn't care one way or the other about the state of his hair but after Jackson bribed him with money, it seems that Stiles is now two hundred dollars richer and has thicker hair than before.
"Did you come here for a reason?" Derek asks then sniffs the air, his face twisting in confusion as he opens his mouth to speak again.
"How do you deal with so many teenager werewolves vying for your attention?" Stiles blurts out before Derek can ask about his scent.
Derek's brows furrow together in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
Stiles sighs, rubbing his hand over his face. "What I mean is, you're the alpha."
"Yes, Stiles. I am the alpha. I'm glad you can state the obvious," Derek snorts.
"Shut up, let me finish talking first." Stiles glowers at him.
Derek glares at him, breathing deeply through his nose as his stance stiffens. His face twitches with the irritation Stiles knows he evokes within the older man whenever they exchange more than three words between them. He grins, despite himself, glad to know that he can always count on Derek to act as he normally does when it concerns Stiles. Unlike some unruly puppies who devotedly follow after Derek for some strange season.
(Well, not that strange. Stiles knows that he is half the reason the pack is the way it is now, but his point still stands.)
"You're the alpha, so the puppies hang around you a lot. They treat you a certain way and stick to that because you're their alpha. Right?" Stiles manages to explain himself coherently, hoping that what makes sense to him also makes sense to Derek right now.
Puppies, Derek mouths to himself with wry amusement before he meets Stiles' gaze and nods his head.
"Right, so, if your puppies started acting differently, you could just make them act like they used to before," Stiles continues.
"Wrong," Derek cuts in just as Stiles is starting to pick up steam. "It would be wrong to force my betas to act a certain way. I'd be a bad alpha if I did that."
Stiles stares at him for a few seconds, mouth agape, before he groans and rubs both his hands over his face in frustration. "Why do you have to have such great morals? Why can't you be like Peter who gives answers for a price or Deaton who never gives a straight one?"
Derek smirks at him, letting his arms fall from his chest so they are by his sides instead. "Why are you asking me about this?"
"Can you teach me how to handle your werewolves invading so much of my privacy recently?" Stiles rushes to say, hoping that his puppy dog eyes work half as well as Scott's seem to do whenever he directs them at anybody, including Derek.
"What do you mean?" Derek asks hesitantly, something in his expression telling Stiles that he almost doesn't want to know the answer.
Stiles sighs. "Your puppies keep crawling into my bed at night, taking my clothes and wearing them even if they don't fit. They keep laying themselves all over me whenever they get the chance too. And, normally, I wouldn't object to so many attractive people constantly touching me, but Jackson shoved his face into my neck the other day and just breathed there for two minutes straight. He wouldn't let me move or step away and I've had the heebie-jeebies ever since, dude!"
"Don't call me dude," Derek says reflexively. "Have they really been doing that?"
"Oh, god. You don't even know!" Stiles complains. "Scott keeps making fun of me because I supposedly reek of pack. I don't smell like me anymore, according to him, which makes it hard to track me down since I smell like a bunch of different hormonal teenagers who follow me around at school, are always over at my house, and lay claim to my own bed often enough that I always find myself on my bedroom floor come morning. Derek, please tell me how you deal with them."
"This at least explains why I couldn't smell you when you drove up. I only knew it was you because your Jeep's engine is so recognizable." Derek stares at him, his facing smoothing out and devoid of any telling emotions. "I thought you liked having so many people over at your place though? You said the pack was welcome any time."
"I did! But then-" Stiles pauses, suddenly suspicious as his eyes flicker back towards Derek's closed-off expression. "Hey, I never said I liked having company over, so how do you know that?"
Derek only shrugs, avoiding his gaze. "Your scent. Whenever the pack is over, you smell happy."
"That is so weird, man. I don't think you even realize how creepy that sounds," Stiles laughs.
"Whatever," Derek says with a roll of his eyes. "You want the pack to back off? Then tell them."
Stiles stomps his foot, fed up with how nonchalantly Derek is taking all of this. "I have! They didn't listen!"
Derek sits down on the steps and leans back so he's lying across five of them. "You have to be firm with them. Wolves respond to you when you command their respect. Right now, they're walking all over you because you let them. I know you're not all flowers and rainbows, I've seen you in a fight, Stiles. Use some of that energy to get your point across with them."
"So your advice is for me to tell them no in a 'Big Boy' voice?" Stiles asks, not believing that his issues with the pack can be solved so easily.
"Be firm. Leave no room for any arguments," Derek says, completely ignoring Stiles' superpower: sarcasm.
Stiles groans. "Why can't you just tell them to leave me alone? You're the alpha!"
Derek rolls his eyes again. "That wouldn't solve anything. The pack would still walk all over you because you're letting your alpha handle your problems instead of doing it yourself. That makes you look weak."
Stiles glowers at him, sniffing his nose in disdain when Derek gets a thoughtful look on his face and tilts his head to the side. He has to fight the urge to laugh, suddenly overcome with how similar to a dog Derek looks like now.
"You do know why they've been acting differently with you, right?" Derek asks while peering at him.
"Of course, I do," Stiles huffs.
Derek laughs then. Honest to god laughs, the sound breathy and filled with enough amusement to build a park. Stiles has to force himself not to gawk because he will not be the asshole that makes Derek Hale feel subconscious for doing something as normal as laughing. The man has been through hell and Stiles knows that he is generally just an all-around bastard almost all of the time, but he's done making things harder on Derek. Derek deserves a break, no matter how hard he tries to self-sabotage himself.
"So, you don't know why the pack suddenly started crowding you and when they didn't listen to you the one time you asked them nicely to give you some space, you decided to come to your alpha and have me squash the problem for you without knowing why?" Derek chuckles, rubbing a hand over his chin as his laughter dies a slow death. "That doesn't sound like you, Stiles."
Stiles rolls his eyes. "Are you going to tell me why or you going to waste my time with more dog training nonsense?"
Derek's expression hardens instantly. "We are your pack, Stiles. Not dogs. I don't care if you call my betas puppies, but don't treat us like we're animals."
"You know that I would never do that," Stiles shoots back. "I know you guys aren't dogs! I'm just saying that your advice sounds a lot like the police dog trainer's when they bring in new K-9s."
"I'm going to ignore that," Derek mutters. "Now, as for why the pack has been acting like that with you. Simply put: they see you as the weakest member of the pack. It's why they circle around you, why they scent you and spread your scent amongst themselves. They're camouflaging you."
Out of all the possible reasons Stiles thought up of in his head for why the pack thought it was open season on Make Stiles Uncomfortable, he didn't expect this to be what Derek would tell him.
"You're joking," Stiles sputters. "Please, tell me you're joking."
Derek shakes his head. "They're doing all of this because they care about you and want to keep you safe. Their instincts demand it of them and so they have to comply. The only way they'll stop is when you stop rolling over and show your belly to them."
Stiles sighs. "Ugh. How am I supposed to put my foot down now after hearing all that?"
"This is exactly why they're closing ranks around you, you know. You can't keep being a pushover."
"Fine. I get it, already," Stiles grumbles. "Be strict, hold my ground with them. That all?"
Derek nods, relaxed now. "If they don't stop, even after you confront them, then I'll step in and handle the issue as the alpha. Just let me know how it goes."
"Yeah, yeah." Stiles waves his hand before he sticks it awkwardly into his pocket as an idea strikes him. "Hey, have you ate yet?"
"Not yet," Derek says, suddenly cautious.
Stiles grins, looking up to meet his gaze. "Great 'cause I'm taking you to the diner downtown. My treat. Hurry up and get dressed."
Derek sighs and stands, apparently willing to go along with Stiles' attempt of returning the favor as long as he gets free food out of it. Stiles watches him walk back upstairs, feeling jittery now that he is no longer in the older werewolf's presence.
"I'll be in my Jeep, waiting," Stiles speaks softly into the stale air of the burned-out home his alpha won't let go of, knowing that Derek can hear him well enough, then turns on his heel and walks outside.
Happy Christmas, @moretomhardy!! I hope this fluffy piece of sap is to your liking. <3
Read on AO3
*****
life-shattering love
His mother never talked much about love.
She was quiet, but he’d see her watching his dad, and he knew she loved him.
His dad, when he did talk about it, said that love was life-shattering, the kind of thing that no one ever quite recovered from, something so deep and changing that he could always look back and say--this moment.
This is the moment I fell in love.
Loving Stiles was nothing like that.
~*~
He falls in love with Stiles the summer before college. It's a slow sticky summer, the whole world moving with a kind of mesmerizing laziness. For once, there is nothing trying to kill them. No witches in the woods, no pixies in the preserve, no selkies in the swamp.
(Stiles giggles around a spoonful of ice cream when he says that, sweaty and beautiful in the sunshine.)
He realizes he loves Stiles the summer before college, when they can finally breathe. Nothing is trying to kill them. The nemeton is healthy again, growing into a tree so massive Derek isn’t sure how anyone can not notice it, but it’s quiet, strengthening the land and the pack, all of its restless, destructive magic quieted by a spell Stiles created, that Kira burned through, that Lydia screamed into being.
Stiles takes to coming by his house, that summer, and Derek thinks maybe he’s bored--Scott and Malia are gone, traveling before Scott begins at UC Davis. Kira is still in town, but she spends her time divided between Satomi and a kitsune who wandered into Beacon Hills in February and promised to teach her.
Sometimes, Derek thinks he can smell that strange coach on her, but she blushes when he mentions it so he stops.
Lydia leaves after the summer solstice, in a wash of red hair and tears, and fierce promises to see them all before the semester begins.
“Do you think we will?” Derek asks, and Stiles shrugs.
Licks his lips and says, “Do we have lemonade?”
~*~
When he was growing up, they lived in peace.
There were whispers, lessons about what hunters were like, what they could do to a wolf pack. There was training in the woods--but those training games always felt like playing with his favorite sister and uncle, and not like something that would one day save their lives.
He'd hear Peter yelling at his mom, sometimes. That they were weak, that they would be hunted because of it.
But they lived in peace. In a golden haze of every good thing, where Derek was safe and sure that he always would be.
He never dreamed of something like the fire, or someone like Kate.
For a long time, he felt guilty, for not realizing that could happen, for not seeing the danger .
Sometimes, he still does.
They have never lived in peace. Scott, Stiles. The puppies that have gathered around them--they don't know what peace can be like. They don't understand games in the woods that mask training, don't understand telling legend and stories just for the sake of stories.
But as the quiet peace of Beacon Hills stretches and the sun-soaked summer turns, Derek wants to teach them.
He watches Stiles, and thinks that he would be beautiful, in the soft golden warmth of peace.
~*~
Stiles drags him to the department picnic for the fourth of July. Derek doesn't fight it, is content to let Stiles pull him with long fingers wrapped around his wrist and a hopeful smile. He dutifully carries plates of brownies and bowls of pasta salad and cases of beer. Parrish grins at him, tan and flirty from the edge of the water, and Derek flushes as he looks away.
"He likes you," Stiles says, softly, unwrapping another package of hotdogs.
Derek raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Not interested."
He doesn't explain more than that, just takes the hot dogs and chicken to where John is manning the grill. He gets a beer and a wide smile for his trouble, drawn into conversation with a few deputies, while Stiles bustles about like a particularly demented mother hen, and the sun beats down hot against his shoulders.
Derek itches to smooth sunscreen into pale skin, but wordlessly hands the bottle over. For the rest of the day, there is a white smear on Stiles’ shoulder and the scent of chemicals and coconuts mixed with grass and sweat and ozone. It's intoxicating.
Later, he piles plates high with chicken and the cucumber salad Stiles raved about, with buttery corn on the cob and creamy potato salad, and goes to find Stiles.
"Sit down," he orders, and Stiles watches him with a small smile, and deep knowing eyes. They sit in the grass, an ant tickling his ankle as they eat, pressed shoulder to shoulder as Stiles talks about growing up with the entire department as an extended family. Tara brings a plate of brownies and thick chocolate cake over to them and Stiles lights up, this lovely brightening that makes Derek's breath catch as the sun slowly sets.
They share the brownies and cake, and Derek doesn't watch the way Stiles licks the fork clean, but he also doesn't nudge Stiles away when he slumps against Derek's shoulder and tips his head back to watch the stars and wait for the fireworks.
~*~
Stiles spends a lot of time at his house.
But then--Derek spends time at the Stilinski house.
The sheriff mentions wanting to remodel the bathrooms and update the kitchen one night and Derek quietly offers to help.
"I worked in construction, when we were on the road," he says. "I liked building things."
Stiles watches him, eyes bright and curious and warm.
"I could pay--"
Derek waves a hand. "I'm not taking your money," he says, almost offended, and stands, gathering up the dishes from their dinner.
He hears Stiles as he turns on the water to soak the plates, his voice a low steady murmur, "Pack cares for pack, Dad. Let him do this."
Later, the sheriff finds him, while he's reading and waiting for Stiles to clatter downstairs to leave for a late showing of some superhero thing he's excited about.
"Thank you," he says, and Derek shrugs.
"I haven't done anything yet."
"No," the sheriff says slowly. "You--Stiles wanted to go away for college, and after what he and the girls did to the nemeton--he can't. Not really. And you--you're good for him. You always have been, even when I didn't like you. You keep him safe, and you make him happy."
Derek's heart is pounding and he isn't sure what to say, so he goes with the safe bet of saying nothing, just staring at the sheriff with wide, wide eyes.
Above them, Stiles shouts and there is a muffled curse as he slams into something, and Derek twitches to go to him. The sheriff smiles, softly, and pats his knee. "Thank you, son."
It aches, hearing that word. But not as much as it should, he thinks.
~*~
Lydia blows into town in a whirlwind of silk and curls and late summer heat, and he finds himself at her lakehouse for Labor Day.
Kira leans into him as Lydia and Stiles argue about how to make margaritas, and Derek digs his bare toes into the plush carpet, impatience and contentment warring for dominance in his chest.
"Sorry I was MIA this summer," Kira mumbles into his side and Derek wraps an arm around her, tugs her close and lets her scent--bitter and electric with a cut of jasmine--soothe the sharp edges Lydia always drags up in him.
Stiles doesn't love her, not anymore, but there is always something about her that lures Stiles in, away from Derek and there is a very petty part of him that loathes it.
"You needed the time," Derek says to Kira, and she hums, quiet agreement, and watches Stiles for a moment.
"What are you going to do when we're all gone?"
He doesn't answer, because he doesn't actually know.
But as he watches Stiles laughing in the water, tanned and beautiful in the sun, and dripping on him when he leans over Derek with a smile free of shadows, he thinks--they'll be ok.
Whatever happens.
He'll be ok.
~*~
He didn't always like Stiles.
That thought makes him laugh now. That there was ever a time when he didn't adore Stiles, is laughable.
But he didn't.
He didn't trust humans, and Stiles didn't understand werewolves, and was so damn determined to help Scott, the way Derek should that he hated Stiles.
And then there was the hospital and the pool, there was Peter and Stiles' presence, like he was meant to be there.
There was that other endless summer, when the betas were missing and Stiles was all that kept Derek from a slow slide into insanity.
There were so many little things, things that dragged him back to Stiles.
He doesn't know when he stopped hating the flailing sarcastic boy with his fierce loyalty and sharp, impossibly brilliant mind.
He doesn't know when he began to trust him, or when that trust softened into friendship and he has no fucking idea when it twisted into love.
He doesn't know why it doesn't terrify him--love has always been a sharp edged tool meant to cut and hurt him and those around him.
But Stiles--Stiles isn't like that. Stiles has been the steady shield between him and the world for so long that Derek can't imagine Stiles ever hurting him.
It's as laughable as a time when he didn't like the boy who has somehow become his entire world.
~*~
Stiles likes being in the house, and Derek likes having him there.
After the fire, he was never really comfortable in packs, with people who weren't Laura--it's one of the many reasons they never really settled down, why they were constantly moving, their thin pack bonds to each other all that kept them from going omega.
But he remembers long nights in hotels they'd crash in for weeks at a time, when Laura would sprawl on her bed and watch TV until her eyes couldn't stay open and Derek would read whatever book she'd found for him, and they were comfortable and together, alone with their thoughts and never alone because that's what pack was--it was never being alone.
Stiles is like that.
He'll come in and not even talk to Derek, just curl up in his favorite seat and read through his homework, making notes and exchanging texts with Lydia, while Derek reads in his recliner. Sometimes, Stiles would mumble a greeting and stumble into Derek's room, crashing out on his bed, and Derek would only go find him when his snoring got too loud, or his breathing dipped into the panicked uptick that meant nightmares.
Then Derek would slip into bed and curl around him, his hand spread over Stiles' rapidly beating heart, his voice a soft whisper as he promised the sleeping boy he was safe.
He fell asleep there, more times than he liked to think about, and Stiles would wake, slow and content, and it hurt, watching Stiles smile at him, soft and warm in Derek's bed because it meant everything to Derek and nothing at all to Stiles.
~*~
Fall settles over Beacon Hills like a lover, with a whisper of cool wind and a touch of snow, with the cascading color of the trees and the scent of pumpkin in the air, and Stiles shows up with a big bag and two rakes, his eyes sparkling as he drags Derek out into his massive yard to rake the leaves.
"I live in the forest, you idiot," Derek says, and he hates how fond he sounds.
Stiles grins and shrugs and says, "But if we don't rake, there are no piles to jump in."
Derek stares at him for a long moment, long enough that Stiles fidgets under his stare, and then he shrugs and starts raking.
He gets three blisters and his ears are freezing but it's worth it for the gleeful smile on Stiles' face when he launches himself into a pile of leaves and the giddy laugh he lets out when Derek slips into his wolfskin and barrels after him.
~*~
Later, Stiles curls up in front of the fireplace and Derek sprawls across him, and Stiles pets his fur, long soothing strokes until the boy and wolf fall asleep.
~*~
The house is cozy, a quiet, warm thing.
When he first started looking for a house, he was looking at big, sprawling things, and sleek cold places—and they never felt right.
“I get the oversized manors,” Stiles said, one night while he was looking at the listings, curled up next to Derek. “But what’s with the modern deco cold shit?”
Derek shrugged and picked at the fraying thread on his tshirt, avoiding Stiles gaze. “It’s what we lived in, in New York.”
Stiles is quiet for a long time. He doesn’t actually say anything, until he’s getting ready to leave, and Derek is biting back the urge to tell him to stay.
But he pauses, and looks back at him. “This isn’t where you grew up or where you were with Laura. This is for you—where you are now. Pick somewhere you’ll love.”
He did.
Because Stiles watched him, patient and waiting, and hopeful, every time Derek showed him a house, and because—
He was so tired of living in a graveyard, haunted by ghosts.
Still. It’s a house.
A small, cozy thing that he loves, that feels like his , like something he can build on.
But it's only when Stiles is there, his heartbeat steady and his eyes bright, that it feels like more than a house and a possibility.
It’s only when Stiles lazes on the couch or shuffles out of the guest room, when his breathing and heartbeat and arguing and laughter fill up the little house that it feels like a home.
~*~
The pack goes away to college and Stiles--doesn't.
Stiles, the one Peter always claimed was the clever one, the bright ambitious human who could give Lydia a run for her money--stays.
He gets offers. Acceptance at Stanford and Columbia and MIT, and he shrugs and declines each, even when Derek draws him aside and murmurs that money isn't a problem.
"I have scholarships," Stiles says softly, and Derek blinks at him. Staring because he can't understand this.
"I don't want to leave," Stiles says, simply.
"You've always wanted to leave," Derek says, blankly.
Stiles shrugs. "It's not so bad, now, is it? Things are quieter."
Dread pools in Derek's gut. "Do you have to stay," he demands. "Is that what the spell did?"
Stiles smiles at him, bright and warm. "Maybe I just found something worth staying for," he says, softly, before turning back to the apple pie he's making.
Derek lets him, let's him turn away and doesn't comment on the fact that Stiles doesn't answer him.
So they settle into life, without the pack, and if Stiles is around more, Derek thinks--it's normal.
With only the two of them here, they have to gravitate toward each other. Need each other's support and friendship, their pack more than they ever have before. It's comfortable to see Stiles sprawled on his couch, reading over his homework, to quiz Stiles on bio terms while Stiles makes them dinner, to spend the weekend with Stiles and John, working on the Stilinski house and watching old movies that are so terrible he actually likes them.
It's comfortable and easy and it feels so right it makes him ache.
~*~
Stiles isn’t life shattering. He’s something easy and warm, and he slips into love with him like he crawls into bed, settles into it with a long soft sigh and he wonders about it sometimes--because it’s not earth-shattering.
It’s easy.
It’s easy and terrifying and comfortable, the way Kate and Paige never were and maybe that is why when he thinks of loving Stiles, it makes him smile and his hands tremble with want and not fear.
~*~
He falls in love with Stiles that fall, forever long, with the scent of burning leaves in the air and his fingers cold where they grip Stiles’ elbow.
He falls in love while Stiles smiles at him, fond and warm and welcoming.
~*~
Stiles drags him to a party for Halloween. It's the first party Stiles has bothered with since he started at BHCC, and Derek hides his grin at Stiles’ nerves, slips into a leather jacket and a pair of jeans that makes his ass look great.
Stiles blinks at him, a fond smile turning up his lips when he sees Derek, but he doesn't say anything, and Derek--Derek doesn't say anything about the tiny costume Stiles appears in.
They get a lot of looks at the party, but Derek ignores them, keeps his gaze on Stiles, at the bright golden eyes and the flush in his cheeks and the smile so wide and happy as they dance that it makes him forget for a moment how much it hurts that Stiles isn't his.
~*~
The truth is--
He falls in love with Stiles, a slow slide that he only realizes that long summer, but something that has been building maybe since the day they met.
He falls in love with Stiles--and nothing changes.
Stiles invades his space, and drags Derek out of his brooding, plies him with food and random facts and idle musings. He’s there when one of his mother’s old allies arrives in Beacon Hills to renew treaties, and there when the same ally offers marriage to bind the packs.
He’s always there, and that--that means something.
“Maybe,” Cora says, when he Skypes her, “it means he cares about you.”
“Of course he does,” Derek says, immediately and dismissively. “I’m pack, Cora. He has to care about me.”
“I’m pack and I don’t give a shit about any of them except you and Stilinski.”
Derek smiles, fondly, “And Peter.”
“Sometimes,” she grunts and Derek grins.
“Are you gonna do anything about it?” she asks, and he cocks an eyebrow, earning a scowl. “He cares about you, Der. Are you gonna take a chance on that or are you going to pine indefinitely?”
He shrugs, and thinks, that is probably answer enough.
~*~
It’s not that he’s pining. It’s not even that he knows he loves Stiles, and that every night he comes home to find Stiles asleep on the couch, every text message he gets only reminds him that this brilliant beautiful boy is never going to be his--because he could try.
Stiles doesn’t talk about people, not since Lydia and the brief, over before it began fling with Danny.
But there is this ever present fear that if he says something now-- he’ll fuck everything he has with Stiles up, and he won’t get another chance.
“It might be worth it,” Peter says and he thinks about his life, without Stiles in it.
“No,” he says, soft and definitive. “It wouldn’t be.”
~*~
He's a little surprised when John insists he join them for Thanksgiving.
The work he's been doing on the Stilinski house is done now, and there's a preening sense of pride in it, in knowing that he did that for them.
He isn't entirely sure when he started consulting on cases with John--he thinks maybe over dinners, offering shy opinions between John and Stiles’ heated debates, all too aware of Stiles watching him with fond affection.
However it happens, the fourth Thursday of November finds him in the Stilinski kitchen, a bemused smile on his face as he watches Stiles and John. They’re arguing about duck and yams while Derek quietly cuts green beans for the casserole and there’s stuffing burning in the oven. It’s chaotic and different from any Thanksgiving he’s ever been to, and when it’s over, when he’s sitting with a glass of beer and a full belly and Stiles is leaning against his shoulder, eyes half-closed and drowsy, while The Matrix plays on low, he thinks--it's perfect. He thinks--he hasn't been sad and lonely all day.
"Laura loved this movie," Derek says, softly, his lips almost brushing Stiles’ ear, and Stiles laughs. Soft, a huff of breath against his collarbone that makes him want to squirm away and curl closer. He is aware that John is watching them, his gaze soft and warm, and for once, it doesn't make him itchy with panic.
"Mom loved it too. Said it was her payment for watching football and cooking all day."
John makes a scoffing noise. "She just liked watching Carrie-Ann Moss and Keanu Reeves in leather for an hour."
Stiles flails a little and John's smile tips evil. "She'd have loved you, Derek."
His whole face goes bright red, but Stiles' is soft and gentle, and moments like this--moments like this it's almost impossible to remember, Stiles isn't his.
Stiles isn't in love with him.
Stiles is pack, and a friend--his best friend--but he doesn't want everything Derek does.
And that is, surprisingly, ok.
"She would," Stiles says, softly, and his voice is heavy with meaning and it makes Derek's breath catch in his throat, and his fingers, on Stiles’ knee tighten just a little, a spastic little movement he can't stop and Stiles doesn't mention.
~*~
Sometimes, he can forget.
When Stiles is running on too little sleep and he's short tempered and bitchy, snarling at Derek while he studies and mainlines coffee and Redbull--when he hasn't showered or eaten anything but cold pizza for a week, when he sets up camp on Derek's couch in old sweats and only moves to race to college for his final before he comes back and throws himself into studying for his next test--moments like that, it's easy to forget.
But then there are moments like these.
When he comes home and Stiles is sprawled on his bed, face slack with sleep, skin still warm from the shower, smelling like Derek, and wrapped in his clothes.
And when he's like this, all of his stress and defenses stripped away, soft and vulnerable and willing to be so in a 'wolf's den--Derek is almost breathless with how fucking beautiful Stiles is.
With how much he wants him.
He watches Stiles for a long time, and then toes off his shoes and goes to make chili and baked potatoes.
When Stiles stumbles out of the room, summoned by the lure of food, a crease on his face from the pillow, he doesn't really stop until he crashes into Derek's side and makes a low, pleased noise, pressing his face into Derek's arm.
Derek breathes a laugh, and wraps an arm around Stiles waist, holding him upright while he finishes their dinner.
"How was it?"
"Horrible," Stiles groans, and he can hear the pout he knows is on the boy's face. "I hate it."
"Poor baby," Derek says, mildly and Stiles pinches his hip. Derek laughs. "How 'bout we eat and then you can pick whatever you want to watch--even one of your ocean documentaries--before you go home."
Stiles pulls back and beams at him, and it makes Derek's breath snag, his heart pounding because god.
He's used to Stiles, in his space, and beautiful, but he never really gets used to it.
And certainly not when Stiles is this close, his eyes flicking between Derek's and Derek's lips, and his heartbeat pounding steadily under Derek's hand where it's wrapped around Stiles’ waist.
"You're too good to me," Stiles whispers, and it brushes against Derek's lips. For a heartbeat that lasts forever--Derek wants to press closer.
For a heartbeat that lasts forever--he thinks Stiles will .
The oven beeps at them, and Stiles smiles ruefully before he pulls away and says, softly, "I'll make drinks."
They eat in the living room, and Stiles teases Derek gently as he navigates to a documentary that--thank god--isn't about the oceans and their nightmare creatures.
"You're a werewolf," Stiles says, fond and exasperated. "How are you scared of oceans?"
"It's too much water," Derek says stubbornly and because he knows it'll make Stiles roll his eyes and bite down on a grin and Stiles is beautiful, shining and warm at his side.
~*~
Sometimes, when he's alone, and the house is quiet, but the scent of Stiles lingers on the sheets, Derek will close his eyes and reach for himself, will wrap a hand around his hard cock and lazily jack himself off.
It's always lazy, just shy of teasing, and the fingers that brush against his hole are the same way--the same way Stiles would touch him.
Gently.
Reverently.
Teasing.
He pinches his nipple and twists, as he rubs over the head of his cock and he can see Stiles, that bright knowing grin that is telling him something , and he comes, gasping, moaning Stiles name.
He goes to sleep with the come drying on his chest, and it feels almost like a claim.
~*~
He falls in love with Stiles in the icy cold of winter, while snow swirls down around them and Stiles chatters around a Christmas tree and smiles at him, and there is something warm and big in his gaze, something that is terrifying and wonderful and he aches under it.
~*~
“He seems happy,” Lydia says and Derek glances at her, dragging his gaze from where Stiles and Malia and Kira are baking, studies the petite redhead. She's relaxed, more so than he's ever seen her and her gaze on Stiles is blatantly affectionate.
“I worried, when he said he was staying. After everything, Stiles deserved a chance to get out,” she says and he nods. Because it's true, even if the idea of Stiles leaving breaks his heart.
“And now?”
She tilts her head, swirling eggnog in her cup and finally shrugs with a catlike smile. “Not my job to worry about him. Stiles is a big boy and he's happy. That's all that matters to me.”
~*~
Christmas Eve, the pack gathers at Derek’s house.
Stiles is wound up over it for days beforehand, and Derek watches, bemused, as his little cozy house is converted from a cluttered bachelor's pad to a holiday wonderland, something out of a magazine that makes him a little bit anxious of bumping into anything.
Still. Below the scent of cookies and baked ham, peppermint and cocoa, there is the smell of Stiles, sugar sweet and content, and the pack, filling up the space that he and Stiles have somehow made into a home.
It’s loud, chaotic, the kind of chaos Derek remembers from childhood and forgot over the long quiet fall. Scott and Stiles break a lamp playing Twister, and a game of Monopoly gets downright brutal when Melissa joins in, but by the time the third rerun of The Christmas Story comes on, Lydia and Malia are talking soft and low about college and Scott is asleep on the floor, Liam’s head on his knee, and Stiles is tucked against Derek’s side, his eyes heavy-lidded as he leans into Derek’s warmth.
~*~
Cora used to wake him up on Christmas morning, before the sun crept up and Laura jumped on him, before the smell of Peter’s cinnamon applesauce and pumpkin pancakes woke the house. She’d crawl in his bed and stick her cold feet up against his shins and when he peered at her, golden eyes shone back, her little face bright with excitement that never seemed to dim. “It’s Christmas,” she’d whisper, and Derek smiled.
“Do you think Mom knew about our Christmas morning runs?” Derek asks her as he watches Scott stagger to his car, and listens to Stiles puttering through the house and Cora laughs.
“Of course she did. She was Mom.”
~*~
Christmas eve, his mom used to say, was for pack, and Christmas--Christmas was for family.
He isn’t sure how that ends with him in the Stilinski’s kitchen on Christmas morning, but with most things related to Stiles and his father--Derek doesn’t fight it much. He leans against the counter and watches Stiles making breakfast, and what he means to say is, “Thank you.”
What he says instead, soft and wondering, is, “I love you.”
~*~
The eggs burn, and Christmas smells like scorched eggs and spilt orange juice, and Stiles tastes like coffee and toothpaste and sugar when he kisses Derek, long fingers threaded into Derek’s hair, heart beating familiar and steady against Derek’s chest, and it feels...right.
Not earth shattering, the way he always thought love was supposed to be. It feels like a warm blanket on a cold night, like a steady hand on his shoulder and eyes bright and shining in the dark, whispered secrets and endless days, solid and safe and reliable.
“Shh,” Stiles murmurs, and Derek realizes he’s clutching too tight, and trembling against him, and Stiles’ thumb is brushing over his jaw, his eyes soft, soft, so fucking soft. “Shh, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”
He does.
He always has.
Derek smiles and he sees John, a smug smirk on his lips as he steals bacon, before he kisses Stiles again.
~*~
He falls in love with Stiles over an endless summer and a fall that lasts forever, over an icy winter and years of saving each other and every day spent with him, doing nothing and everything, and sharing life.
He falls in love with Stiles as the boy stares up at him, a grin on his lips and the pack counting down behind them, and fireworks bright against the sky and the waning moon.
He kisses Stiles as the year ends and a new one begins and he falls in love all over again.
