i saw this gif of Hoechlin from his new movie and I couldn’t help what happened. Have some so Deter with a hint of Steterk
Derek is hardness and distrust. It’s been true since the fire, maybe even since Paige.
He thinks about it sometimes, the way his nephew changed in that basement, the way killing for the first time shaped and changed him.
Sometimes he wishes he could go back, undo that one act.
He had loved Derek since the moment he held the boy, hours old, screaming while Talia lay exhausted and smiling. He had loved him and spoiled him, and when Talia began to suspect, he had run, hard and fast, because he knew there was something wrong and broken in him. That he would want his nephew like, that, a child.
He ran and hoped it was enough, and when he came home, Derek was tall and beautiful and cocky, with a full pouting mouth and eyes for a pale sassy cello player.
“I don’t know how you can stand looking at me,” he says, quietly.
Maybe. Or maybe it’s the truth, and he’s just tired of running. Maybe there’s an element of both to the statement. He stares at the bandage as he winds it around Derek’s chest and shoulder, hiding away the teeth marks, the ragged claw marks from the incubus.
Derek is hardness and distrust, and he is soft now, his lip bleeding and his eyes soft, his hair longer than Peter has ever seen it, almost curling as it falls in a wave over his forehead. His lips twitch into an almost smile.
He looks drugged, something that makes sense. Stiles had called him, panicked. It had stung, a little, to know that after everything they had been through, together and apart, they had found each, found refuge in each other, while he wandered alone. Still. Stiles called, terrified that Derek was under a spell, that when he could get anything out of him, Derek called for Peter.
Of course he came. It was Derek, whom he loved, and Stiles, the boy he had adored since the first time Stiles refused the bite.
He came, and found his nephew in the thrall of of a incubus, reeking of sex and decay, and festering wounds.
It had taken almost nothing to rip the sex demon to pieces, but Derek--
He was withering under their gazes.
Stiles fought it when Peter first suggested told him what it would take. A kiss broke the sex spell, would start driving the toxin from Derek.
A kiss of true love, and not the bastardized mockery that the incubus had fed Derek.
“We aren’t like that,” Stiles told him, later, when they had tried and failed. “We’re--Peter, I love him. But it’s not like that for us.” He flushes, and looks away. “It’s not like that for me with anyone.”
Later, when he’s less desperate, he’ll apologize. He’ll draw Stiles down and hold his hand, listen to what he needs and what he doesn’t, the boundaries that he truly wants to know, and where he fits--if he fits.
But now, desperate, his wolf whining at the sight of his Derek wasting away, rich with the scent of sex and panting unintelligibly--he doesn’t care in this moment, only cares about fixing it.
It takes another twelve hours before Stiles says, exasperated, exhausted, irritable, “He called you, Peter. Maybe you should try kissing him.”
He stalked away before Peter could respond, too tired and worried to stay, and Peter--
“I don’t know how you can stand looking at me,” he says again and Derek twitches, his head rolling toward Peter as Peter winds the bandage around his chest and shoulder. His skin is soft, softer than it has any right to be, and Peter lets his fingers run over the red skin near the wounds, black veins snaking up his arm as he takes the tiny pain from Derek.
“I don’t know why you called for me,” he admits, and Derek makes a quiet noise as Peter crawls onto the bed, pulling Derek down next to him. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
Derek hums, and turns into him, nuzzling into Peter’s throat, the way he has since Peter arrived at the little house on the coast.
“Peter,” Derek whimpers, and Stiles’ parting words ring like a taunt in his ears.
He wants to, is the thing.
He wants Derek like this--soft and trusting and utterly his--he’s wanted it since the first time he held his nephew, since he was a boy crying in Peter’s arms, since he was a teenager cocky and sure in the preserve, since he was a man sullen and broken and afraid.
He’s always wanted Derek, a truth so ingrained in who he is that even his psychotic break and killing Laura didn’t dim or touch it.
And Derek is here, sweating and shaking, dying in his arms, and still, so sweetly trusting it makes something in him clench in fear and want.
“Please, Peter,” Derek breathes, peering up at him through still bright eyes, wide and sweet and trusting.
Peter kisses him without thinking, before he can allow himself the time to second guess, closes the tiny distance between them and presses against Derek’s lips in a kiss that is sweet and soft, almost chaste, except that Derek--
Derek whimpers and arches into him, making a greedy noise in the back of his throat as he opens his mouth and licks at Peter’s lips.
It goes slick and dirty in seconds, Derek tugging at him and biting at his mouth, rutting against the thigh Peter presses between his legs, hips rolling in a desperate chase.
“Sweetheart,” Peter breathes, breaking the kiss to stare at Derek.
He’s beautiful, his head thrown back, long neck exposed, his body moving in a sweet rolling wave, blindly consumed by desire, lips parted and hungry.
He’s perfect, lovely, everything Peter has always wanted.
Derek comes with a whine, mouth open and gaping, before he collapses back on the bed, and Peter watches him, as he gives a radiant smile that melts into something sleepy and slurred, his eyes fighting to stay open.
“Don’t leave me,” Derek mumbles, “Not again. Stay with us.”
Peter watches him until he sleeps, until his fever breaks, and Stiles comes to curl on the far side of him, watching with knowing eyes.
Peter watches him until he finally wakes, and his gaze, always so hard and distrusting, is warm and bright and hopeful before he makes a needy noise and draws Peter into a kiss that feels like, finally, coming home.
