Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/8359876.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Sterek_Week_2016, SterekLyrics2, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence,
      After_s3_at_least, Nogitsune_Trauma, Mentioned_Jennifer_Blake, NSFW,
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski_Feels, Bottom_Derek, Derek_Deserves_Nice
      Things, so_does_Stiles, Fluff_and_Angst, this_has_FEELS, but_ultimately
      good_feels, Just_with_some_bumpy_bad_feels_along_the_way, Derek_POV,
      Stiles_POV, Hurt/Comfort, Hurt_Stiles
  Series:
      Part 5 of Sterek_Week_2016
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-10-30 Words: 7445
****** Deranged to Divine ******
by Moosey
Summary
     "Derek is indispensable. Not because he’s got werewolf knowledge or
     because he’s one of the few werewolves even left in this stupid
     place, but because I need him. I… I need him, Scott. He keeps me
     safe.”
     -----
     Derek understands how Stiles feels in ways the rest of the pack just
     can't.
Notes
     This one is kind of angsty with feels and anxiety and nightmares. But
     Derek has Stiles, and Stiles has Derek.
     It also skirts perilously close to being GFY, and I don't know how I
     feel about that to be honest, but it felt right in this case. Also,
     romantic sex is really hard to write guys! I hope I did an okay job
     of it.
     The song inspo is Do_You by Carina Round, and she is one of the best
     singer/songwriters I've ever come across, not to mention being
     indescribably and incomparably wonderful live.
                                        
              Out of every broken heart, broken rule and promise,
        I have made a rescue raft and sailed towards you on it, on it…
              I was put together wrong, still I was made for you.
           When our stitches come undone, we come together like glue.
                                             — Do You by Carina Round
                                        
There’s something to be said for putting on a brave face. Slipping the mask in
place and brazening everything out, as though all the trials and tribulations
just roll off like water from a duck’s back. Like nothing can touch you.
It’s how Derek has tended to cope with the things life slings his way. He’s
almost forgotten that anything but the mask even exists anymore, and most of
the time he’s okay with that. Sometimes though, he wonders what his dad would
think of how he’s turned out. All jagged edges and blunt aggression, towering
walls of concrete and steel keeping the world from getting too close.
Or maybe they’re to keep him from getting out. He’s not so sure anymore.
The unbidden memory of Jennifer flashes before he can suppress it, telling her
that everyone around him dies, opening himself up like the wounds on his torso
and saying words he’d never been able to say before; he can’t explain what he’d
give to be able to take those words back, and everything that came afterwards.
How he’d kissed her like she was salvation. How she’d touched him like he’d
mattered.
It just reminds him why it’s dangerous for him to even try to let people in.
Let himself out. Because everything he’d said to her was true. People around
him die. He wishes he could forget.
And yet here he sits, in that same spot on the edge of the very bed he’d shared
with her, the memories of them scrolling through his brain like a movie reel
that he can’t escape from, the edges fraying and flickering.
He can hear footsteps approaching.
“Wow I hope I’m not interrupting anything brooding and depressing right now,
but did it not occur to you to let us know you were back? A call, a text, hell,
you could have just given us a little wolfy howl and I’m sure it would have
gotten the message across.”
Stiles strides into the room with a surety to his movements that was new.
Somewhere along the line, Stiles had grown up and Derek hadn’t noticed.
“Go home Stiles,” Derek says tiredly, feeling a bone deep sense of weariness.
It’s okay to let Stiles see that he’s worn down.
Because Stiles ignores him, of course he does, and yanks down the stained
sheeting that covers the bank of windows, sputtering and flailing as they fall
on his head. He trips back a few steps and coughed obnoxiously, in a whirl of
sound a movement.
“Jesus Christ Derek!” Stiles curses, bundling up the dusty sheets and flinging
them away in a heap. Derek watches Stiles scruff his hands through his hair
mussing it up even further, and flexes his fingers against the mattress beneath
his hands. “Do you even realise how unhealthy this is?” Stiles is asking, near
stomping his way over towards Derek. His sneakers make a slapping sound against
the bare wooden flooring.
The whole place smells of damp wood now, but at least it meant there were no
bloodstains on the floor. Not that he could ever forget the exact spot Boyd had
died.
“Hello? Earth to Derek? Anyone home?” Stiles asks, voice obnoxious and grating.
He waves his hand in front of Derek’s face, and for just a moment the smell of
Stiles fills his nose instead of wood rot. Stiles sighs loudly, his nostrils
flaring and his mouth tightening. “You’re such a pain in the ass,” he declares,
dropping to the floor by Derek’s feet. He crosses his legs, hands curling
around his ankles, and blinks up at Derek expectantly.
“What do you want?” Derek asks, voice dulled.
“That’s a loaded question there Big Guy,” Stiles says flippantly, scratching
absently at his cheek. “A million dollars, all access passes to Comic Con, for
someone hot to want to touch my junk… For more than five minutes to pass before
the next supernatural crisis. You know, basic stuff.”
“I mean why are you here?”
“Scott said he had this feeling like you were back in Beacon Hills. So I
thought to myself, if I were the broodiest wolf to ever wolf, where would I be?
And hey, what do you know, I was right.”
“Congratulations Stiles. Your powers of deduction led you to find me, in my
home. Truly, I’m impressed,” Derek says in the driest voice he can muster.
“Well it sounds obvious if you put it like that,” Stiles mutters, glaring up at
Derek. “Stop distracting me. I came here with a point.”
“You gonna get to it anytime soon?” Derek asks, pushing himself up to standing.
He steps around Stiles and walks to the window. He feels a little less like an
exposed nerve now, like he’s growing a layer of skin that’s helping him feel
less raw. There’s something comfortable about the familiar irritation he feels
in Stiles’ presence.
“So amusing Derek, really,” Stiles huffs as he scrabbles to his feet. “My point
is -” Stiles is saying, ignoring Derek’s glare with a practiced ease, “-that
this is unhealthy. This place. It makes my skin itch being here dude. You need
to find somewhere new.”
“This is my home Stiles,” Derek sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s a
defensive movement, and he knows Stiles will pick up on that but he doesn’t
care.
“This is like self-flagellation. Mea Culpa. You know I’m right,” Stiles says.
“This is you being a martyr and punishing yourself.”
Stiles was never one for pulling his punches, and each word hits like a solid
blow. He’s not wrong. Derek knows that, and so does Stiles. He’s never been an
easy one to fool. Not like Derek.
“It’s none of your business,” Derek snarls, lunging forward and grabbing Stiles
by the shirtfront. He hoists Stiles close and his breath saws out of his lungs
in harsh rasps. “What I do has nothingto do you with you.”
Stiles curls his hands around Derek’s wrists, his palms slightly clammy to the
touch. His fingertips settle over Derek’s pulse points, and he drops Stiles
immediately, pulling his hands away from Stiles’. It’s too late though. Stiles
will have felt his racing heartbeat.
“I get it, you know,” Stiles says conversationally, as though a werewolf hadn’t
just manhandled him and snarled in his face. It’s testament to everything
Stiles has been through by now that he his heartbeat doesn’t even stutter.
“What you’re doing. Why you do it. I get it.”
The thing of it is, Derek believes him. He doesn’t know what it is about
Stiles, but whenever he opens his mouth, Derek believes every word that comes
out of it. He might not like what he hears; in fact, most of the time it’s
irritating as hell, but it’s always honest.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s a dumbass move, but I think that about 99% of
the things you do,” Stiles shrugs, shoving his hands in the pockets of his
jeans. “And I’ve been pretty consistently proven right. I’ve said it before,
but seriously. You should all just listen to Stiles.”
Derek feels a vague ripple of something that feels a lot like exasperated
amusement, because Stiles is just so reliably Stiles. An asshole to the end,
referring to himself in third person and reminding Derek of his stupidity in
the most blunt way imaginable, and yet it doesn’t feel like an accusation. Not
really at least.
“I don’t know if it means anything,” Stiles says, his hand on the heavy sliding
door. “But we never blamed you. Inever blamed you Derek.” He shoves the door,
throwing his weight behind the movement. Derek barely has to flex to open that
same door. He forgets sometimes, that Stiles is only human. Stiles pauses, and
looks over his shoulder. “And I’m glad you came back.”
                                     *****
 It’s a habit he’s struggling to break.
One, two, three, four, five…tapping his fingers against his thigh in a
surreptitious movement, counting as he does so.
One, two, three, four, five… it’s becoming a compulsion. He understands this,
tries to still his hands when he catches himself doing it, but that just makes
anxiety crawl up his throat.
One, two, three, four, five…late at night, when he wakes up in a cold sweat, he
digs the nail of each finger into his bare thigh, pressing half moons into his
skin until the pain flares up and he can breathe just a little easier. At least
for a little while.
                                    ***** 
“He said it would be like a darkness. A scar on our hearts,” Stiles says,
drawing his knees up to his chest.
“Scars mean you’ve survived,” Derek says from his perch on the windowsill. His
hands are braced on the ledge and he keeps his eyes averted. Stiles appreciates
that he does that. He spends so much time with eyes on him, searching for signs
he isn’t okay, that it’s nice to not be looked at for once.
“Did I though?” he asks, his voice taking on a tremulous edge for just a
moment. He coughs once, as though the issue of his quaking voice comes from his
dry throat and not the fear coursing through his veins.
“From where I’m standing you did. You survive everything life throws at you.”
Stiles nods, reaching out to grab a fistful of the sweat sodden crumpled sheets
he’d kicked off during his nightmare. “Like a cockroach,” he says, balling the
sheets up and dropping them off the side of his bed. “After the nuclear
holocaust, all that’ll be left is Twinkies, cockroaches, and me. And maybe
Peter too.”
Derek huffs out a sound that could just about pass for amusement, but Stiles
thinks might just be acknowledgement, and shoves away from the ledge. He stoops
to pick up the sheets. “You need anything from downstairs?” he asks.
Stiles shrugs, feeling inexplicably small. He picks at a loose thread dangling
from the hem of his dampened shirt, and tries to ignore the apprehension in his
chest at the thought of being alone, even for a few minutes.
“Go and take a shower,” Derek suggests, leaving the room without a backwards
glance. He leaves the door ajar, but turns on the light in the hallway, like he
knows Stiles is scared of the dark right now. Stiles does as he is told,
padding into the bathroom with quiet steps, fingers still tapping on his thigh.
He avoids the mirror, knows he will look pale and haunted, eyes dark and
bruised looking, stark against his washed out complexion.
Maybe there’s also a part of him that’s scared his eyes will look hollow and
vacant, that his lips will be curving into a cold approximation of a smile that
he has no control over.
He sets the spray of the shower to slightly too hot, and climbs in, just
wanting to be warm. It feels perfect, the hot trails sluicing away the stale
sweat on his skin and flushing it pink and then red. There’s something a little
lonely about showering in the middle of the night, even though he knows Derek
is in the house; his dad has started overnights again, and if not for Derek’s
impromptu visits, Stiles doesn’t know that he would cope.
He towels himself dry and changes into the clean boxers and shirt that he’d
brought in with him, wadding up his old stuff in the wash basket, and walks
back to his room, fingers trailing on the wall as he goes. He touches things to
feel grounded.
Derek had changed his sheets for him, put the old ones in the wash, and there
is a glass of water and a mug of hot cocoa sitting on the small bedside table.
He clambers onto his bed and cradles the mug between his hands, inhaling
deeply. “You put vanilla in it,” he says, smelling the mellowness of the spice
in his drink. Derek glances up from the book he’s reading and nods. “Thank
you,” Stiles hums, taking a sip.
“It’s fine,” Derek replies, going back to his reading. He’s working his way
through Stiles’ collection of books, and he knows exactly how Stiles likes his
hot chocolate. Even if they never talk about it, barely acknowledge each other
in the light of day, it makes him feel safer, to just know someone out there
cares enough to learn about his little quirks. It helps him keep the mask on
during the day, have them all believing that everything is okay.
                                     *****
He often smells tired. Anxious. Afraid. Astringent scents that Derek can almost
feel weighting down his tongue and filling up his lungs with something that
feels eerily like smoke, but he guesses that might be his own shit, bubbling up
and mingling with the things he can feel from Stiles. He knows about
projection.
It’s easier though, Derek thinks, when he is there. Stiles’ shoulders loosen,
just a fraction. Enough to let Derek know he’s making a difference. It helps
him too. To be able to take all the things that’ve beaten him down, to take the
betrayals and turn them into something that feels a lot like understanding.
Like kinship. He knows how it feels, to be used. Lied to. To have people look
at him with troubled eyes and that thrumming tension, waiting to see if you’re
going to snap. They don’t understand how it pushes you closer to the precipice,
but Derek does. He knows it well, can recall the sensation with every fibre of
his being, and he sees it in Stiles’ wild eyes sometimes, spooked and agitated.
Stiles gravitates towards him now. It’s like there is a thread between them,
reeling them in, closer and closer until the air between them is warmed by
their body heat. At pack meetings, Stiles eyes seek Derek first, and then his
body follows. Derek wonders if Stiles realises he does it, or if it’s
instinctual.
Like magnets, drawn to one another.
He stands by Derek’s side, and spouts out his biting sarcasm and rapier sharp
wit. He’s stiller these days though, and his gesticulations have more purpose.
There’s less wild abandon about Stiles, but trauma will do that to a person.
When the pack leave the loft, Stiles stays behind. No one questions it aloud,
but Derek sees the unsubtle and questioning looks Scott is throwing Stiles’
way. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively at Scott, and laughs as Scott looks
worried, likely coming to the worst possible conclusion he could.
“Scott’s legit going to have nightmares about us boning now,” Stiles smirks,
sounding gleeful. He throws himself down on the sofa and grabs the TV remote.
They both know it isn’t true. There isn’t anything like that between Derek and
Stiles, besides, the pack really don’t have a clue just how much time they’ve
taken to spending together. Neither one of them ever mentions it. Only the
Sheriff knows, but he’s willing to allow it if it helps his son. He’s a good
man, and a good father.
“Poor Scott,” Derek commiserates, ruffling through the top drawer of his
dresser. He pulls out a soft blue shirt and some Blackwatch Tartan pyjama
bottoms and flings them both in Stiles’ face as he passes by back to the
kitchen. Stiles is snickering as he messes with his phone, likely texting
Scott, and he meeps when the clothes hit him in the face.
“Jackass,” Stiles says without heat, getting up to go and change. Derek rolls
his eyes and gathers up the detritus left behind by the pack. He digs into
Stiles’ bag and pulls out his pillow, slinging it on the bed and tugging down
the sheets.
“Ooh turndown service,” Stiles quips. He walks to the bed and sprawls out on
it, hugging his pillow close. “Tuck me in,” he orders imperiously, grinning
broadly. His eyes are drooping, exhaustion hitting him hard and fast as it so
often does. Doesn’t mean he’ll be able to stay asleep though, as Derek well
knows by now.
“You texted your dad?” Derek queries, dragging the sheets up and over Stiles.
Stiles makes a sound Derek thinks is acknowledgement, but he decides to shoot
off a text to the Sheriff anyway, letting him know Stiles is safe and staying
at the loft. Stiles seems to have gotten over his aversion to the loft for the
most part, even though he insists it’s still bad for Derek to be in this place
with so many bad memories. Honestly, Derek agrees with him, and he’s been
considering finding somewhere else.
But he has good memories of being here too, like this, with Stiles.
He walks quietly around the loft, fixing two glasses of water - Stiles will
inevitably wake up in the morning and need a drink - and locates the book he’s
reading. Stiles had loaned it out from the school library for him, seeing as
he’s worked his way through both their respective collections and hates the
public library because the librarian always looks at him like he’s going to mug
her or something. Stiles says he should try toning down the leather and death-
glares, but when he does that people hit on him, and he’s honestly not sure
which reaction is worse.
He settles down on the armchair, next to the ridiculous wolf shaped nightlight
that he plugs in when Stiles stays; he’d bought it for Derek claiming that he
just couldn’t not buy it because “it’s basically you Derek,” and neither one of
them mentions how Stiles can’t sleep without it now. He has his own one at home
in his room too.
Hours pass in silence, and Derek thinks there isn’t really anywhere else he’d
rather be than in his home, the moonlight filtering through the bank of
windows, nothing but the ambient sounds from outside and the soft whuffs of
breath that come from Stiles as he sleeps. His heart is always a little faster
than most peoples, but it’s picking up ever so slightly. Not enough for even a
werewolf to notice, unless they’re finely attuned to the patterns of his heart
anyway, which Derek undeniably is. He slips a crumpled and fading receipt
between the pages of his book and goes over to the bed, jostling Stiles
slightly as he sits.
Stiles opens his mouth, makes a small rasping noise, and his eyes are moving
rapidly beneath his closed lids in a state of REM. Derek scoots around so he’s
sitting against the headboard, and he reaches out a hand to brush his thumb
lightly over the soft skin at the side of Stiles’ neck. Slightly damp, Stiles’
pulse beats a rapid tattoo under Derek’s hand. Stiles whimpers, and it’s a
sound Derek wishes he weren’t so well acquainted with. A lost little sound,
that’s so lonely it hurts Derek’s heart in part because it reminds him of
himself, and in part because he never wants Stiles to be lost and lonely.
“Stiles,” Derek says, still petting the skin under his thumb in a soothing
motion. Stiles’ breath is coming faster, his chest beginning to heave.
“Stiles,” Derek says, firmer still. He feels the stutter of Stiles’ pulse under
his thumb and then Stiles is gasping awake, eyes almost impossibly wide before
squeezing closed. He reaches out blindly for Derek, who pulls him onto his lap.
Stiles winds his arms around Derek’s waist, face pressing into his stomach, and
he pants out rasping breaths. His hands have made fists around Derek’s shirt,
and he’s crying quietly, tears soaking through to Derek’s skin but they don’t
ever talk about that.
Derek suspects Stiles really wouldn’t appreciate it if he ever tried.
The main difference, according to Stiles, is that when he wakes up from a
nightmare and he’s alone in his bed, he won’t sleep again. The idea of closing
his eyes and trying to sleep makes him want to vomit, so all-consuming is the
anxiety and fear.
First he’d talk, not about his nightmares, but just anything. Babbling in a
shaken voice to Derek, who played the role of captive audience even as he was
cataloguing Stiles’ heart and scent for the truth of his fear. Then he’d ask
Derek to sit with him, not quite touching, but just a solid presence that
helped him at least shake off some of the tension. Eventually Derek would touch
him; a hand on his arm, fingers in his hair, Stiles’ forehead pressed against
his shoulder. Now Stiles wraps himself around Derek like an octopus, inhales
Derek’s scent and trusts in him to keep him safe. It’s enough that Stiles will
fall asleep again, this time probably through until morning, and wake up
without exhaustion nipping at his heels.
Derek won’t. Derek will stay awake through the night and keep watch, keep
listening to Stiles’ heart until he wakes up for school. And then Derek will
sleep. It’s inconvenient, he supposes, but it’s a small price to pay for
Stiles.
                                     *****
Stiles isn’t stupid. He knows the lengths Derek goes to for him, and it’s
probably the only thing that keeps him sane. It’s like having a safe haven in a
storm that you know, with absolute certainty, won’t let you down. It’ll never
let the outside in, not unless you want it to. The problem is, Derek will be
that for Stiles at the expense of himself. He’ll give and give until he’s empty
and used up, because it’s just who he is.
Stiles isn’t going to let him become a husk.
Derek has filtered into his day, in so many ways. He sees things he wants to
share with Derek, so he peppers him with inane text messages that Derek doesn’t
often reply to, but that he keeps on his phone. Stiles has seen them there. He
sends pictures and memes, though Derek always deletes the memes, but it makes
Stiles smile to imagine his scowling little face trying to understand why the
meme is funny. He’d actually given in and asked Stiles why people kept making
insanity wolf memes, because of course Stiles went through a phase of sending
as many as he could to Derek. Because wolf.
And speaking of, Stiles will sometimes stumble upon something tenuously
werewolf related and buy it for Derek, or sketch him little cartoons of
werewolves in class when the teacher is being particularly boring. He’ll get
books out from the library, and leave them in little piles for Derek with notes
on the backs of receipts tucked inside, letting him know when they’re due back,
always illustrated with a little wolfy-Derek face with big eyebrows. 
He found out by accident that Derek has a weird thing for cherry flavoured
Lifesavers and prefers the taste of artificial cherry to the real thing, so
whenever Stiles is out doing a grocery shop he’ll pick up cherry flavoured
candies and stash them in the top drawer of his desk for the nights Derek stays
around.
All these little things, the ways Derek’s existence has become intrinsic to his
day, happen without Stiles really noticing. He knows Derek is important, but he
doesn’t realise quite how much until he yells at Scott in the school parking
lot, tearing his arm from Scott’s grip and pointing a finger in his face,
ordering him to pull his head out of his ass when it comes to Derek.
Scott blanches for a moment, shocked to his core that Stiles would shout at him
like this. “Dude, I’m just saying-” Scott tries, but Stiles doesn’t want to
hear it.
“Just saying what?” he retorts. “Come on Scott. Explain to me again how you’re
blaming this on Derek. Tell me how you think he’s keeping things from you, just
to try make himself indispensable to the pack,” Stiles scoffs, and crosses his
arms over his chest.
“I’m just saying that he has a history of not telling me the full story Stiles,
and I think he’s doing it again. He’s being secretive-”
“Oh my God Scotty! Are you actually this unobservant? You want to know why
Derek is being secretive? Because he’s been spending every single Goddamn night
with me,” Stiles snaps. Scott rears back and opens his mouth. “No it’s time to
listen to Stiles now. Derek is indispensable. Not because he’s got werewolf
knowledge or because he’s one of the few werewolves even left in this stupid
place, but because I need him. I… I need him, Scott. He keeps me safe,” Stiles
finishes quietly, his voice taking on a slightly hoarse quality.
“Stiles?” Scott says, sounding both concerned and slightly betrayed. “I keep
you safe too.”
“Yeah bro, you do, but it’s different. It’s like the voices in my head can’t
get me when he’s there. Nothing can hurt me, because he won’t let it. He
understands it, Scott. He gets it.”
Scott frowns, looking mighty unhappy, but doesn’t say anything for a moment.
“Is this like a Lydia thing? Is it because you think he’s hot?”
“Are you serious?” Stiles says, voice flat. Scott flinches and seems to realise
how stupid that question is. The truth of it is, Stiles barely even reacts to
how Derek looks anymore. He hasn’t in a long time; it’s probably the very last
thing he thinks of when he thinks of Derek. “I’m gonna go,” Stiles says,
feeling weary, wanting this conversation to be over. “Stop blaming everything
on him Scott. The contrary squabbling sibling thing isn’t cute anymore.”
“Are you going to see him?” Scott asks, sounding slightly combative.
Stiles takes a deep breath, wondering how this is his life.
“No, Scott. I’m going to see my dad at the station. He’s been working a lot
because we have even more fun medical bills to pay off now.”
“Oh,” Scott says, deflating slightly.
“Yeah,” Stiles nods. Awkward silence falls between them, and it just makes
Stiles feel tired.
He tries to sleep alone at home that night, and spends hours playing a stupid
bubble pop game in hopes the repetitiveness will help him sleep. It doesn’t. He
caves and calls Derek at around 1.30am, unsurprised when Derek comes into his
room only a few minutes later, having let himself in with the key he has to
Stiles’ front door.
“What happened?” Derek asks immediately, hovering by the door. He looks
slightly uncomfortable, in ways he hasn’t in a however many months they’ve been
doing this now - Two? Three? -  and Stiles doesn’t like it one bit.
“Fight with Scott,” he mumbles, well aware he sounds pouty.
“About?” Derek asks, looking like he’s bracing himself for impact.
Stiles heaves out a big sigh and kicks his way out of his bedding, coming to
stand in front of Derek. With his feet bare, he has to look up a little at
Derek. “You,” he says simply.
Derek’s mouth tightens and he moves to fold his arms across his chest, but
Stiles intercepts the movement and manhandles Derek’s arms back down by his
sides with a little quirk of a smile. “It’s fine Derek, Scott and I argue
sometimes. Mostly when he’s being a stubborn ass,” Stiles confides. He tugs on
Derek’s leather jacket. “Why are you still wearing this?” he asks, stepping
back towards his bed. He pours himself into the bed with a big yawn, and ends
up making grabby hands at Derek when he isn’t moving fast enough for Stiles’
liking in shedding his coat and shoes. He has a comfy looking khaki t-shirt on,
and it makes his eyes a soft green, hazy in the low light from the wolf
nightlight.
They cocoon themselves in their own little world when Derek settles next to
him, Stiles’ head on Derek’s shoulder. There’s this perfect little spot where
there strong curve of his shoulder dips down towards the equally strong curve
of his pectoral, and Stiles likes to fit his head there. It also means Derek
can curl his arm around Stiles, which is another bonus.
He doesn’t do that right now though. Right now he’s still and slightly tense.
“I don’t want you guys to fight because of me,” Derek eventually murmurs,
keeping his voice low.
“We aren’t fighting because of you, we’re fighting because Scott is being a
butthead,” Stiles sighs, propping himself up to look down at Derek. He hates
the wary look on Derek’s face, like he’s blaming himself for everything that
has ever gone wrong in the world, in the history of ever. “Derek,” he says
quietly, bringing his hand up to cup Derek’s cheek. The stubble prickles
against his palm. He can’t find the words to explain to Derek how much he means
to Stiles, how sometimes Stiles thinks Derek is the only thing keeping him
afloat. He isn’t sure what possesses him to do it, has given it no forethought
whatsoever, but Stiles leans down and presses his mouth to Derek’s, catching
his bottom lip between his own in a soft and brief kiss.
He barely pulls back before he turns his head, resting his forehead against
Derek’s jaw. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not,” Stiles breathes out. Derek’s
hand rests on his spine between his shoulder blades, and Stiles takes a moment
to thank God that Derek doesn’t push him away. “Was that okay?” he asks
tentatively.
Derek takes a moment to respond verbally, but Stiles can feel him nodding
before he even finishes asking. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Think so?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been kissed,” Derek says haltingly. “Not since
Jennifer,” he tacks on, shifting a little under Stiles. “I haven’t wanted it.
Half expected it to make me feel sick.”
Stiles pulls back to look at Derek, but he’s averting his eyes. “My last was
Malia in Eichen House,” Stiles confesses, throat tight. “I had sex with her
Derek,” he presses his lips together and shakes his head. “And I don’t even
know if it was me.”
Derek cards his hand through Stiles’ hair, cupping the back of his skull, and
draws him back down to rest on Derek’s chest.
“I thought I was broken, you know,” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s t-shirt. “I’ve
had literally zero-sex drive in months. I’m a teenage boy, Derek. And that was
never an issue for me before, believe me.”
“I know,” Derek says, sounding fond. “I could smell it,” he teases. 
Stiles groans and yanks the cover over his head, pressing his face firmer into
Derek’s chest. Derek chuffs a little laugh, stroking his hand down Stiles’
spine.
“You aren’t broken Stiles,” Derek states, voice serious. “Even if you never
want sex, ever again. You aren’t broken.”
“You’ll um. Notice I used past tense there,” Stiles eventually stutters out. He
squeezes his eyes closed, fear gripping his chest as he puts himself out there.
As he feels Derek go tense beneath him, his hand stilling.
“Stiles?”
“I think I could want that. With you,” Stiles admits.
“I’ve never been with a guy before,” Derek informs him, resuming the slow path
of his hand, up and down Stiles’ spine.
“Unsurprisingly, me either.”
“Have you wanted to?”
“Maybe? I’ve looked at guys. At Danny. Even at you. I didn’t think about the
actual logistics of it or anything, but I looked. Have you?”
“No,” Derek says, shrugging slightly. It makes Stiles’ chest ache a little,
because at some point down the line he’d started to think that this was their
end game. He just didn’t realise it until he pressed his lips to Derek’s, but
now that he has, he doesn’t know if there’s any turning back. He shifts away
slightly, half wanting to turn around and curl in on himself, but Derek brings
his other hand to rest on Stiles’ hip, thumb making small circles on the skin
that is bared by his shirt rucking up a little. “There’s only been you.”
Stiles breath leaves him in a whoosh, and he’s shaking slightly, fingers
unsteady as he grips at Derek’s t-shirt.
“Kiss me again?” Derek asks, his lips brushing Stiles’ hair as he speaks.
Stiles nods, already moving so he can slot their mouths together, holding on
tight to Derek as he’s wrapped up in Derek’s strong arms, laid out on Derek’s
solid chest. Everything about him is steady and sure, but his mouth is soft and
yielding. He makes the quietest little sound into Stiles’ mouth, like a whimper
but it’s less needy than that. It’s more like relief, that he isn’t being
denied.
Stiles thinks he should know by now that Stiles won’t ever deny him anything.
                                     *****
Derek is sure that he’s never needed anything the way he needs Stiles. There
are a million reasons why this is a bad idea, but he can’t bring himself to
care about any of them, because Stiles’ lips are so gentle against his own, and
all he can smell and taste and feel is Stiles. It’s overwhelming, in the best
possible way. It’s like he’s chasing away the ghosts of Jennifer and Kate that
still sit heavy on Derek’s tongue, and replacing them with himself.
He’s squirmy in Derek’s arms, not even trying to keep his full weight from
resting on Derek because he knows Derek can bear it, and he touches Derek as
though he’s something to be savoured. Feather light touches as though Derek
might break if he presses too hard. No one has ever touched Derek like this.
It’s always been gripping hands and ownership, dragging from him everything
they can get.
Stiles mewls into Derek’s mouth when his tongue licks lightly against Stiles’
own, and he turns them slowly, moving them so Stiles is laid out beneath him
and safe from the rest of the world. “Derek,” Stiles breathes, voice
questioning and just edging towards needy.
Derek shushes him, brushing a thumb along his jaw and catching his mouth in a
slow kiss, pouring everything he can’t find the words to say into it. He kisses
Stiles like it’s the only thing in the world that matters to him, and he
realises the truth behind that; there’s nothing else for him but this. But
Stiles. He gasps out a little growling sound when Stiles slips his hands under
Derek’s shirt, his warm and slightly clammy palms finding their way up Derek’s
back, mapping out the firm muscles that bracket his spine. Derek shifts his
hips to fit in the cradle of Stiles’ thighs, and they both groan,
simultaneously seeming to realise they’re hard against each other.
“Holy shit Derek,” Stiles gasps, pulling back and looking down between them
with wide eyes.
“Is this okay?” Derek asks, unmoving. Stiles nods rapidly, nearly frantically,
and his fingers flex against Derek’s lower back, urging him to move. Derek
does, his body starting up that near-unconscious movement of push and pull,
give and take, feeling Stiles begin to respond in kind. He gets a little lost
in the heady scent of Stiles’ want, rolling off of him in thick waves that
Derek hasn’t smelled from him in too long. Stiles always smelled a little like
teenage lust, and the absence of it wasn’t something Derek had noticed until
right now, in this very moment when he’s drowning in it.
“Can we?” Stiles asks, hands rucking Derek’s shirt up around his armpits. Derek
kneels back and yanks his shirt off, pulls Stiles up into a sitting position
and rids him of his shirt too. Stiles’ skin is pale, liberally dotted with
moles that Derek can’t help but mouth at. He’s warm and vital and vibrant,
barely pausing to even look at Derek before he’s diving back in with his mouth
against Derek’s throat.
Derek knows what he looks like, works out to keep himself in decent fighting
shape, but it still makes his stomach sink a little when predatory and
proprietary eyes skim over his torso. Stiles barely pays it any mind, seeming
to prefer the feeling of their skin catching against each other’s, and the feel
of their arms wrapping around one another. Bizarrely, it makes Derek feel seen,
for maybe the first time ever.
 He eases Stiles back down, and finds himself laughing when Stiles immediately
wiggles around, trying to get his legs from around Derek presumably so he can
push down his pyjamas. Stiles huffs at Derek and pushes at his thigh. “Help
me,” he whines, eyes sparkling with both lust and happiness.
“Impatient,” Derek murmurs, pulling down Stiles’ pyjamas as he retreats to the
foot of the bed, carefully easing each leg from around Stiles’ feet. He takes a
moment to bask in the realisation that Stiles is laid out bare for him, that he
wants Derek. That he needs Derek. Because Derek needs him too, doesn’t want to
even imagine having to learn to find his own feet again without Stiles holding
a hand out to help.
He kicks out of his jeans and boxers, blanketing Stiles with his body, both of
them murmuring soft sounds against each other’s mouths. Derek doesn’t know
where the idea comes from, but once he’s thought it, he can’t think about
anything else. “Stiles,” he hums against Stiles’ collarbones, his lips dragging
over soft skin and bones. “Stiles, will you… fuck.” He stops, frowning at his
own inability to articulate what he needs. This is all just so new to him.
“It’s okay Derek,” Stiles soothes, his long fingers trailing across Derek’s
shoulders.
“I want to know what it’s like,” Derek finally says, dropping his head to rest
on Stiles’ chest. It’s much narrower than his own, less bulked out, but still
undeniably strong. “I want you to be the one in me,” he explains haltingly.
Stiles freezes for a moment, then his hands resume petting, but with a tremor
running through them. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he blurts out.
“We’ll figure it out,” Derek promises, moving up to kiss Stiles thoroughly.
Stiles trails a hand down Derek’s spine, cupping his ass with his warm palm,
fingertips just dipping lightly between his cheeks. Derek tenses for a second,
and huffs out a breath against Stiles’ mouth.
Stiles grins at him, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Dude, we don’t need to
rush into this,” Stiles notes.
Derek relaxes, against him and presses a kiss to the side of his ravaged-
looking mouth. “I know. But I want it. Be patient with me though?”
“Always,” Stiles hums, absently brushing his fingers back and forth, each sweep
bringing him a little closer to Derek’s hole. It’s a strange, intrusive sort of
feeling, and Derek can feel himself blushing, feeling bashful. “You feel
perfect,” Stiles tells him, burrowing his head under Derek’s chin, like he’s
scenting him or something. “How you feel against me, on top of me. It’s
perfect. You’re so beautiful Derek. Not just how you look, but who you are,”
Stiles says, fingers now pressing dry against him. Derek feels so overwhelmed
his arms are shaking as they bear his weight, and it’s like his bones are
turning to jelly. “Lay on your back maybe?” Stiles suggests.
Derek nods and flops onto his back, immediately parting his thighs so Stiles
will fit. “I um, I have lube somewhere,” Stiles says, going a little pink. “I
haven’t used it in a while,” he mumbles, hanging over the bed and digging
around. It’s so graceless and clumsy, and so very Stiles, that it makes Derek’s
heart clench. And he realises, with absolute clarity, that he’s in love with
Stiles. Has been for a while he suspects, but he knows without a shadow of a
doubt, right now, that he loves him.
Stiles flings himself back upright, holding out a slightly dusty bottle of
lubricant and grins impishly at Derek. Derek rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh,
taking the bottle and squirting some out onto Stiles’ fingers. “Go easy on me?”
“I won’t hurt you,” Stiles assures him, and Derek knows he’s telling the truth.
This time he’s less shy about Stiles touching him, particularly as he can watch
Stiles’ face as he does so; mouth gaping open, eyes wide and unblinking, then
blinking rapidly before he stops again, like he can’t remember basic motor
functions. It’s a weird feeling, when Stiles pushes in one fingertip, slightly
wet and a little unpleasant, though that eases as Stiles pushes more of his
finger in, a slight burn replacing the wetness. He goes slow, staring like he
can’t believe what is happening until Derek reaches for him and Stiles
immediately hunches over to kiss him, giving Derek what he needs without his
having to ask.
It starts to feel good when Stiles is using two fingers, the occasional brushes
of Derek’s prostate doing wonders for his flagging erection, and he’s just so
fucking grateful that he gets to experience this with Stiles.It feels
cleansing, he thinks. When, finally, Stiles is pushing himself inside, skin
damp with sweat and his breath held in his chest as though it’s all too much
for him to be able to cope with, Derek feels like howling. His chest is
bursting with a feeling of rightness, like all his pieces are finally fitting
together.
He’d forgotten when it felt like, to not be fragmented.
And when Stiles is as deep as he can go, Derek feels whole again. For the first
time in so long. Since before the fire, before Kate, before Paige. Before life
decided to start chipping away at him. He only hopes Stiles is feeling what he
feels, because as much as he wants this for himself, he wants more for Stiles.
“Jesus Derek,” Stiles gasps, lacing their fingers. He rolls his hips
experimentally and hisses, dropping his head so it hangs on his neck.
“Stiles please,” Derek murmurs, shifting his own hips. He’s not sure what he’s
asking for; he thinks he might be asking for everything. He brings his hands up
under Stiles’ arms, pulls him closer with hands on his shoulders. Stiles drops
to rest his weight on his elbows, chest pressing against Derek’s, and they both
move together with subtle shifting movements and rolling hips, breathing into
each other’s open mouths whilst their skin sticks together. 
“Derek, I don’t- I didn’t-,” Stiles is spilling nonsense, unable to complete a
thought. “Oh God,” he shudders, biting Derek’s shoulder. He worms his hand
between them and grips Derek, who arches up into the touch, his whole body
straining towards release.
It’s Stiles who comes first, a hot and messy feeling that floods inside of
Derek, making everything slick and slippery, mouth open in a silent groan. It’s
the look on Stiles’ face though, and the choked out sound he makes, how his
hand involuntarily squeezes tighter around Derek that cause him to tip over the
edge too.
He suspects he might bark out a horse sound, back bowing, baring his neck to
Stiles.
They collapse together in unison, sticking together and radiating heat. “Holy
shit,” Stiles breathes, nuzzling his cheek absently against the hair on Derek’s
chest. He’s slipped out now, and Derek feels a little empty and bereft without
him inside anymore.
He nods his agreement to Stiles exclamation, feeling sated and loose-limbed. He
can’t believe that just happened, but he also can’t imagine a world where it
didn’t.
“Hey Derek?” Stiles asks, voice dragging with sleep.
“Hmm?”
“Have I ever told you I love you?”
Derek blinks at the ceiling. “No.”
“Oh. I’m an idiot then,” Stiles declares. He grabs for a discarded shirt and
clumsily makes an attempt to clean up their messes, soft swipes of material
over Derek's chest and between his legs. He rearranges himself next to Derek,
reaches back to grab Derek’s wrist and pull him around so he’s the big spoon to
Stiles’ little spoon. Stiles laces their fingers together in front of him,
ending up completely wrapped in Derek’s arms. “In case it wasn’t painfully
obvious, I do. Love you,” Stiles says as he kisses Derek’s hands.
“I love you too,” Derek says immediately.
“You know what? I think I knew that,” Stiles says contentedly. He cranes his
head around for kisses and Derek lifts his head to oblige him, unable to resist
the little demanding sound Stiles makes.
“Good,” Derek says against his mouth. “Now sleep.”
“Gonna be so gross in the morning,” Stiles says sleepily, making a slight
smacking sound as he snuggles down.
He out within minutes, and he sleeps through the night without waking once.
And so does Derek.
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