"Okay, okay, okay." Lenny all but giggled as she turned to the person next to her. The music was blasting in the next room, but with smoke curling around her, Lennon had found herself set up like the Caterpillar from Wonderland. "If you were a fuckin' ice cream flavor, what would you be and why. Cause I think this shit says a lot about a person. I myself would be the short-lived but always loved Late Night Snack, which.. Jimmy Fallon is a fuckin' hack but fuck me, potato chips in some dessert is stoner behavior. Peak."
Ā (AN: Here it is, the final installment of this mini-fic. Thank you to everyone who have liked and reblogged these posts - that means the world to me! I hope you enjoy this final day. It's very special to me to be able to write Derek and Stiles like this. :) You can read the whole fic on AO3 here.)
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Stiles likes to tell Derek, with a teasing smile and nudge of his shoulder, that Sunday is ours. He wakes up at a reasonable hour, manages the most of his homework at the dining room table around a mouthful of chicken-salad sandwich and spends the quiet morning mulling over mathematical equations as his father joins him with the Sunday post.
His backpack is slung over one shoulder as he makes to leave, his father calling out an affectionate reminder, Donāt be home too late, and Stiles can not help but smile faintly at this. They both know that he will not be returning this evening, but they play their part with each other, the topic still not fully broached although quietly understood:
Sunday belongs to Derek.
The pack never stays with Derek on Sundays, so the house is oddly quiet but soothing. It has been (mostly) rebuilt but there still lingers that underlying smell of earth and smoldered timber. Rather than tear everything down, Derek built over the ruins, a silent reverence of the past, of loved ones gone but not completely, no, for they still live in the patches of wood, the creaks in the floorboards, the flecks of time that cling to the old glass windows in some of the rooms. DerekĀ doesn'tĀ speak of it, his decision to keep the past curled around him, but Stiles understands, and like his own memories that map along his skin in ways Ā still too tender-sore to speak of, Stiles leaves them be.
Thereās no pot of coffee in its usual spot by the stove, so Stiles gathers the raw coffee grinds from the freezer and prepares a fresh brew for Derek, (who is somewhere about the house, Stiles justĀ isn'tĀ quite sure whereĀ - but there is that familiar itch skirting across the base of his neck that makes itself known whenever Derek is near).
He is close to finishing the ham-and-spinach omelet crackling in the frying-pan when his waist is suddenly encircled and his body pulled back. Strong naked arms curl and tangle against Stilesā stomach and he can feel Derekās heat spread across the narrow breadth of his back. His body relaxes of its own (heĀ hadn'tĀ thought he was tense to begin with) but his muscles and bones know their other half and welcome Derekās presence, the knowing warmth that buries itself beneath Stilesā skin and settles against tendons and the spider-lines of his veins.
Isn'tĀ it a bit late for you to be eating breakfast? Derek murmurs against Stiles' still-short hair. He nuzzles at that sensitive patch of skin behind Stiles' ear and hums with content when Stiles shivers in response.
Derekās voice sounds tinged with sleep and that makes Stiles curious.
Itās for you, actually, Stiles replies, his voice staying soft to echo Derekās. It seems suiting to how still the house feels, as if itās waiting with hushed mouths to listen to what Stiles and Derek might have to say. No dishes in the sink, I figured youĀ hadn'tĀ eaten yet. Were you sleeping?
Derek humsĀ noncommittally, breath fanning across the delicate shell of Stiles' ear. Instead of answering he drags a line down the curve of Stiles' neck with his nose, breathing deep, exhaling, drawing in Stilesā scent again.
Stiles lifts his hand and lightly raps the back of his knuckles against Derekās bare shoulder; the smooth tight muscle twitches in return to being touched.
Hey, Stiles says softly, not that he minds. He moves to turn his face into Derek before realizing the still-cooking egg on the stove, the orange-red flames licking at the bottom of the pan. He turns off the dial with a quick twist of his wrist, bites back a smile at the low growl Derek makes (Stiles knows Derek saw the action, his gaze is always hypnotized by Stilesā bony wrists and sweeping fingers) and Stiles flips the egg over one last time, a swell of pride rising on his cheeks at not breaking and ruining his omelet creation.
Derekās fingers scratch at the skin of Stiles' waist, the hem of his shirt rucked up slightly.
Not like you to sleep in, comments Stiles, stretching up to the open cupboard for a plate as he digs out the proper utensils from the side draw with his other hand. Derek bares his teeth slightly against Stiles' throat, his hold tightening as the action results in Stiles having to pull away somewhat with his task.
Youāre ridiculous, Stiles admonishes, but rewards Derek with a kiss in his (damp?) hair anyway. Hey ā take a shower?
Derek nods, finally relinquishing his hold, albeit reluctantly and looking a little disgruntled by it, and Stiles prods at Derekās broad naked shoulders, ushering him to take a seat.
I went for a run early this morning and then showered. I guess I fell asleep again.
Stiles canāt chase the teasing grin that plays at his lips when he takes a chair beside Derek, sliding the plate full of fluffy omelet-deliciousness in front of his companion.
Lonely without me?
Itās a cheesy line, Stiles knows it, but there is no one else in the house to hear besides Derek.
Stiles prepares to gloat but is cut off by the firm grip that clamps around the back of his neck, his arms flailing about with the least bit of grace as Derek nearly hauls him out of his chair to press an open-mouthed kiss into Stiles' already gaping mouth.
The kiss is warm and slow, a little heady, and Stiles allows his eyes to flutter shut as Derek teases the roof of his mouth before finally tasting, wet slide of tongue and gentle nipping of teeth that drag across Stiles' lower lip. Stiles makes a noise. Derek swallows it and draws another one out of Stiles.
When Derek pulls away, still too close, his eyes are trained fondly upon Stilesā, (which admittedly are a little drugged looking).
His eyes glint with self-satisfaction.
Yes.
StilesĀ doesn'tĀ quite have a response for that (sometimes Derek is so damn honest that StilesĀ doesn'tĀ know how to speak at all) and attests it to the slightly fried synapses of his brain struggling to get their asses back in gear.
Right, says Stiles, nodding, although thatās probably redundant so instead he crosses his arms flat on the cold wooden surface of the table and rests his cheek in the crook they make.
He likes the little smile that tugs down at the edges of Derekās mouth as he eats.
Youāre getting it too easy, Stiles says, gazing up at Derek in a way that he knows is an obviousĀ target to be mocked but he canāt help it, Sunday is theirs and heāll enjoy every sappy moment of it that he can. Iām practically a housewife to you, cooking you breakfast and sucking your-
Derek shoves a clump of egg and spinach into Stiles' mouth before he can finish that sentence, and Stiles chokes on his laughter and nearly spits out ham against Derekās invasive fingers.
Later, when theyāre laying out on the grass behind Derekās house, that small clearing thatĀ isn'tĀ shaded by the looming treetops, where the waning sun can still touch and skate warmly against their faces, Stiles tangles his fingers with Derekās. Theyāre laying on their backs and Derek has (unfortunately) donned a shirt, but his arms are still bare and radiating heat as Stiles presses his shoulder against Derekās, tries to rest his cheek awkwardly in the crook of Derekās neck.
He thinks of the end of the school year that creeps upon him closer and closer; and how he will explain to Derek that he has chosen not to dorm away but commute instead and yes, this was utterly his unbiased decision. He thinks of his father and the responsibilities he takes in protecting this town, his home, Stilesā home, Stilesā home with Derek, and how that is enough for Stiles, heĀ doesn'tĀ need college dorms and weekend parties (although whoās to say that cannot happen even when commuting?) and he likes that there is a room at the end of the hall on the second floor of the Hale House, near to Derekās room, which Derek has not mentioned yet but Stiles knows that it belongs to him, if he wants it.
And he does.
He knows that there will always be Wednesdays and Alphas roaming into Beacon Hills, threatening to take, offering sweet liquid words of invitation for Derek to abandon this empty town and join the ranks, to gain the unfathomable strength that an Alpha can achieve only when joined with other Alphas.
The knowledge of being a human with a werewolf who is, out of instinct, drawn to his own kind always leaves Stiles trembling. But Derek can sense the fear, always so sensitive to it, to the doubt that creeps up Stilesā spine and into the contours of his brain.
No, Derek will whisper, pressing his hand flat against Stilesā chest, grounding him. No.
Stiles pushes himself to his elbows suddenly, and Derek squints one eye open at the abrupt change at Stiles almost being still for once.
The sun is dying thinly through the trees, but it lingers with faint determination and Stiles moves his head so he is blocking the uncomfortable intrusion into Derekās eyes.
Derekās face is eclipsed by shadows that splay across his face in cookie-cutter shapes, odd angles that dip and arch across his cheekbones, the soft skin beneath his eyes, the hollow valley below his brows.
What is it? He asks.
Stiles purses his lips, because heĀ doesn'tĀ know how to say it, how to formulate the thoughts in his head into a verbal stream that will make sense, that will not frighten or chase away or possibly ruin all these days, weeks, months.
I want, he pulls in a breath, feels the squeezing pressure of his heart against hisĀ rib-cageĀ at the inside of his wrists, the pulse behind his belly-button. Nothing more than this.
Derekās brows draw together, confused.
This, Stiles says again, as if that explains everything. So he speaks like Derek speaks, through actions, and hopes that he will understand. He presses his palm over Derekās heart, fingers splaying outwards. I love this. I donāt want anything more. Just this. This beating heart.
Derek watches Stiles' face, never pulling away, even when Stiles presses his hand down into Derekās flesh, strong above the thud of his heart, as if he could scoop into Derekās chest and touch the beating life source.
Derekās eyes flicker back and forth, searching Stilesā face.
If I could, Stiles says quietly, Iād take it into myself, Iād make it so that thereād never be a reason for it to be separate from my own.
Derek nods. Itās a distant subtle movement but it is there and he lifts a hand, slowly, carefully, hesitantly letting it settle against the center of Stilesā chest. He is breathing hard now, thick dark brows drawing tight in concentration. His mouth forms a thin line.
Me too, he says, his voice a little rough. But when he continues itās smoother, gruff around the edges but warmed in a tone that Stiles recognizes as theirs. Ā I do too.
He nods again as if silently reconfirming to himself.
I ā His fingers curl inwards, just a little but Stiles feels the blunt scrape of human nails pulling at the fabric of his shirt, across the skin that traces his heart. I love this beating heart.
Itās a strange way of them saying it, Stiles knows this, but there is nothing normal about anything in Stilesā life, from the way he catalogs the days to the breathing, living werewolf stretched beneath the length of his own body.
Stiles relishes in the last hours of Sunday, the fleeting moments of now and he tries not to press too closely into Derekās chest as nightfall settles around them, as their bodies fit to one another in the center of Derekās bed. Derekās hand is a grounding weight against the small of his back and Stiles knows that heāll have to deal with tomorrow when he opens his eyes again. That another Monday will start, as it always does and so will Tuesday and so will Wednesday. And it will keep on churning unceasingly whether Stiles thinks he can manage through it or not.
Because when he wakes the next morning, Derek is still there, coaxing him through the routine again.
(AN: read Thursday first if you have not. it's the reason Friday results in this way. And is so short. :P Kind of a filler to the weekend?)
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Stiles, more often than not, is grounded on Fridays.
His father is waiting in the kitchen for him when he arrives home from school (after the club Derek had dragged him straight home into bed and Stiles was not about to thwart any of what hadĀ occurredĀ afterwards) and Stiles manages to make it to the edge of the stairs before his father's voice is calling him back with steely warning.
Stiles whips around quickly and it is not so much that he is startled but more so that there is a rather large and sporting bruise at the back of his neck, where Derek bit down hard as he came and of course he marked Stiles where no collar could possibly hide it.
Stiles forces his face into a wide ridiculous grin and says, Heya, pop, how's it going? feigning for nonchalance that neither of them is buying.
His father's brows are drawn, chin titled downward as he regards Stiles in obvious displeasure.
Fun evening last night? he asks and Stiles knows that this is going to go very badly very quickly if he does not get himself to the safety of his room within the next three minutes.
Ah! Fun! He bursts out, his voice jumpy and too high and he makes some flailing motion, scratching at the back of his head. His face slowly crinkles. ...Just, normal, stuff. Normal Scott stuff.
His father sighs.
Stiles' phone vibrates in his pocket and he does his best not to leap backwards into the staircase at the utter shock that jolts through his body in surprise.
Stiles...
Right! Yes! Grounded.Ā AbsolutelyĀ got it, good, very... good. Stiles' teeth click together, wincing at his father'sĀ unyieldingĀ expression.
But the older man doesn't seem to even want to know the details of Stiles' Thursday evening (and god is Stiles grateful for that) and he just sighs again, shakes his head and mutters, The whole weekend, Stiles. and turns away.
Stiles is up the stairs and in his room before his father can have a change of mind and he scrambles crazily for the still-vibrating object in his pocket.
He thumbs to his messages and grins when he sees that it's from Derek, before he even reads the message.
Grounded?
Stiles' lips pull back and he is smiling like an idiot, he knows, but there's no one here to see him so it doesn't matter.
Thursdays awaken Stiles with open palms spreading up his spine, blunt fingernails dragging into the curve of his throat and the white-flash sparks of pleasure that burst behind his eyelids. There is the pull of teeth at his lower lip and the growl of possession that pushes into Stilesā mouth, open and damp with slick lips that Derek bites at greedily. Thursdays begin with the thrust and slide of Derek against him, between his legs, against his thighs and it is always a battle of needy desperate fingers and Stiles gasping hotly into Derekās shoulder and the low rumble of need that breaks from Derekās mouth as he comes, filling Stiles thick and warm, and Stiles takes and takes as much as Derek will give him, until Stiles is coming helplessly beneath Derekās weight, Derekās arms and knees caging him against the mattress as he marks Stilesā collarbone through the come down.
It should be enough, really, but it never is. Stiles drags Derek into the shower afterwards and takes Derek deep into his throat, humming in reply to the hiss and snarl it elicits from behind Derekās teeth.
Stiles nuzzles his cheek against Derekās shoulder as he starts a pot of coffee, Stilesā hands never leaving their tight knot at the front of Derekās waist. He skips school and clings to Derek in a way that should be infuriating, but Derek gets it, he does and his hands rarely leave any patches of skin on Stilesā squirming body.
Once dusk begins to settle, Stiles takes Derek to the sleaziest club that he can find, fingers tangled possessively with Derekās as he leads him to the center of the dance floor, where the press and throb of writhing bodies forces them flush against one another (not that Derek would have it any other way). It is here amongst the throng of careless heady minds and air so thick with lust it makes Stiles dizzy, that Stiles can forget completely. He winds his hands up Derekās chest where they clasp loosely against the nape of his neck, already damp with sweat. Stiles likes the way Derekās eyes glow red in the pulse-throb of harsh strobe lights, and Derek watches Stiles with an intensity that strips Stiles bare, forcing him taut with want and Stiles rolls his hips into Derekās, as the slick-slide heat of their bodies arch together under the steady drivingĀ rhythm.
Derek moves slow and filthy, pushing his thigh between Stilesā legs and pressing up until Stiles is rutted against him, until Stiles moans and drops his head back, revealing the graceful arc of his throat as the blue-white lights dance across his skin. Derekās fingers against his hips always press a little too harshly, and Stiles shivers as the bruises make their presence known into his flesh.
Stiles loves it, though. After all, it means heās alive, and so is Derek, teeth an erotic scrape across his throat, claiming him and Stiles loves the way Derek crowds him against the wall in one of the back rooms, working him open and taking him slowly as Stiles comes apart to the hot damp whispers of Derekās open mouth at the back of his neck, broken confessions of, god Stiles, youāre so perfect, yes, just like that, jesus - so good- so fucking good- clinging to Stiles as if heās never wanted anything else.
Stiles thinks that he may hate the middle of the week more than any other day, if that is at all possible. It seems that evil always prefers to wait until everyone has settled into that familiar routine of normalcy, the first two days survived, leaving everyone too comfortable and forgetful of what lingers in the darkest corners of childrenās fairy tales.
Wednesdays settle upon Stilesā shoulders with icy fingers that bury themselves into Stilesā flesh until his muscles are clenched so stiffly that it is difficult to move, let alone breathe. Derek is never far from lingering near Stilesā side: Stiles can feel his presence lurking beside the bleachers at lacrosse practice, through the windows and across the street when he sits hunched over a book in the library. Derek waits at the steps of Stilesā school when the last period bell rings and Stiles could give a damn that the entire senior year watches him scramble into the passengerās side of āDerek Haleāsā Camero. Derekās fingers are warm and strong and press a little too tightly around Stilesā wrist during the drive home.
Stiles spends the day pacing the halls of the Hale House and once so often Derek will catch Stiles by the arm and drag him forward, holding Stilesā head in place as Stiles pants against the curve of Derekās neck, fingers trembling against Derekās elbows.
Itāll be ok, Derek breathes against Stilesā hairline, hand firm as it slides down and presses flat between Stilesā shoulder blades. Weāll survive it, we will.
Wednesdays are wracked by nerves stretched raw from the unyielding pressure of impending and unavoidable chaos and the stench of blood that Stiles knows all too well. Wednesdays means that someone will attack, hunters or Alphas or whatever else god damn supernatural being worms its way into Beacon Hills - and Stiles knows how Wednesdays will end, because it always ends the same way no matter how many times Derek promises otherwise.
Stiles'Ā hands shake by his sides as the clock in the kitchen ticks softly, climbing steadily towards something Stiles does not know but feels crawling up the back of his throat. Wednesdays are like that last shuddering moment before your lungs finally give out and the water rushes in.
His knuckles are white-fisted and there are crescent moon gouges left in the tender inside of his palms from where his nails have dug too hard. Because any danger at all means that Derek must protect and is stupid reckless about it. Wednesdays end with Derekās head cradled in Stilesā lap and the desperate wet sounds Stiles makes as he clutches at Derekās neck, his face, the pulse at his wrists - wet desperate sounds of God Derek, donāt you do this, donāt you fucking - breathe, damn it, fucking-
Stiles closes his eyes and focuses on the drag and exhale of air burning through his lungs, reminding him of how fragile and useless his seventeen-year old body really is.
