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http://download.archiveofourown.org/works/3220895.
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M/M
Teen Wolf (TV)
Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall, Allison Argent, Lydia
Martin
derek and scott are best friends!, Scott is an Alpha, Derek and Stiles
are Neighbors, derek is a bit of a spazz, romantic ~rain~ ending,
Tattooed Stiles
Published: 2015-01-24 Words: 14400
Peculiar / Interesting
by standinginanicedress
Summary
Notes
first of all I know I still haven't finished my other fic - because...I'm the worst...tbh. I'm just
stuck on it and when I get stuck on stuff I just start doing other stuff hence this fic suddenly
existing
the entire thing is based around one moment in Buffy s4 when Riley says "you don't think
she's...peculiar?"
I know that kid! Scott caws happily around a mouthful of scone, pointing one tanned finger in a
vague direction. He was in my business class a while ago!
Derek glowers a bit at his next door neighbor, Stiles Stilinski, across the courtyard of his
apartment building as he breezes down the stairs in sweatpants and a pullover, chomping on a
donut and staring blearily out at the world like he only just woke up ten seconds ago and a cruel,
vengeful god forced him out of bed against his will. The kid lives in the apartment directly
beside Derek, has all kinds of weird habits (like buying groceries at three o'clock in the morning
and making a huge amount of noise right outside of Derek's door when he returns home) and
weird conversations (Kira, I'm telling you, there's a ghost in this apartment building, I've felt,
like, presences) and stays up at all hours of the night baking cookies and eating ramen because
he can't afford anything else, and is well...
Attractive. That's one way to put it. Stiles is aesthetically appealing to Derek in a...in a very
sexual manner. He walks around with his happy trail peaking out of his shirt, his hair tousled like
someone had just been grabbing and tugging on it, and on good days Derek can see the dark
black tattoo peaking out from behind his collar. He's sex walking.
Unfortunately, whenever Derek starts liking someone like he's in 5th grade, his defense
mechanisms (the ones he built up after Kate Argent sent his entire life up in smoke) tend to lash
out in interesting ways.
Denial. Nitpicking. Feigned annoyance. All of it directed at Stiles' nothing-but-friendly
demeanor all day, all the time. Which is the most fucking annoying thing about Stiles because no
matter how callous or rude or cold Derek is towards him, he still waves and smiles and asks
what his star sign is and Derek...are you a Scorpio? I'm getting Scorpio vibes.
Derek is a fucking Scorpio. It's so infuriating.
Scott raises his eyebrows at Derek, waiting for a response; so Derek clears his throat, squints,
and says, don't you think he's strange?
The boys watch as Stiles drops his half eaten donut on the ground, flails for a second before
glancing all around as if checking to make sure no one's watching and then scoops the glazed
treat right back up and takes another bite, albeit with a guilty expression on his face.
Strange? Scott repeats, furrowing his brow.
Yeah. Like you know. Peculiar.
Peculiar? Stiles shoves his key in his mailbox, and even from all the way back here Derek can
hear that it's the wrong key. The absolute wrong key. It grinds against the small confines of the
slot and he's amazed, absolutely amazed, that any one person could be this oblivious. With sick
fascination, Derek watches as his bizarre neighbor tries to rip the incorrect key out of the too-
small hole, cursing and muttering under his breath the entire time. Maybe a little.
The donut falls out of Stiles' mouth for a second time, and this time Stiles just kicks it with a
vengeful foot, sending it skittering to a stop right beside where Derek and Scott are sitting. One
last tug, and snap. The key breaks in half with one half still lodged inside his mailbox, and Stiles
stares at the remnants of it left on his key ring, amber eyes wide and upset.
Is he nice? I never got the chance to talk to him in class but he seemed nice. Scott says, sipping
his coffee distractedly. Derek is still staring at the donut on the ground, at the indents of Stiles'
teeth marks, thinking, Stiles' lips have been all over that thing. His saliva. Because maybe
Derek has spent a little too much time staring at Stiles' lips as discretely as possible whenever
they passed each other in the hallway or wound up crammed into the elevator together. Maybe
while Stiles prattles to him in the awkward silence, after pressing the button for floor ten
thousand times in a row because he has no patience whatsoever, all Derek does is hone his eyes
directly onto the younger man's pink, soft, immaculateIs he nice? Scott repeats the question more forcefully and Derek finally snaps out of it.
Nice? He's he's just odd.
Well, Scott says, taking one last bite of his scone, he's coming over here.
Derek whips his head around to the mailboxes, where Stiles was standing just seconds earlier,
and finds that there's no indication that Stiles was ever there except for his key still wedged into
the lock on his box. He's just about to start scanning the entire courtyard when the familiar rasp
of Stiles' morning voice comes from behind him.
I think that's mine. Derek turns around to be blessed with the sight of Stiles' amber eyes,
shining in the early morning sunlight, up close. He smiles down at him, and then slides his eyes
to Scott briefly, before pointing down at what's left of his donut. My breakfast. He bends
down, grabs the donut up out of the leaves and dirt, and holds it with two fingers slightly away
from his body.
You're not - Derek swallows, looking at the way several pebbles have clung to the glaze on
the donut warily, you're not going to eat that are you?
Stiles blinks his bambi eyes at him. Do you seriously think I would eat this?
Derek has seen Stiles eat a lot of things. He buys those ninety-nine cent chili dogs from the
sketchy looking guy who comes every Saturday afternoon, comes stumbling into the building at
three in the morning with a big mac half eaten in his hand, eats pickles straight out of the jar as a
snack while sitting in his car; not to mention the time Derek caught him shoveling packaged
shredded cheddar cheese into his mouth while he was drunk and locked out of his apartment.
We just saw you pick that thing up from the ground and start eating it again not even two minutes
ago.
Stiles gawks, looking genuinely offended, and holds the donut even further out from his body,
closer to Derek. Have you ever heard of the five second rule? Like it's one of the 10 Holy
Commandments, he says this. This thing was grounded for at least fifteen seconds.
Derek eyes the donut skeptically. So that's why you won't eat it? The amount of time it spent on
the ground?
Stiles raises his eyebrows, and nods.
Not the fact that it has dirt and animal feces and dead grass all over it?
If I didn't know any better I'd think you were trying to get this, he shakes the donut in his hand,
all for yourself.
Derek snorts, rolling his eyes. You got me.
With one last dazzling grin, Stiles dumps the dirty donut into the trash can, wipes his hands on
the back of his sweatpants (not that Derek follows the movement with his eyes like some kind of
pervert in a horror film scoping out his next victim...not at all), and then disappears towards the
building manager's office. Probably to go find someone to help him get his key out of the lock.
Derek watches him until he's completely out of sight, and then turns back to his friend with a
sigh. See what I mean?
Scott, for his part, is looking at Derek with an oddly knowing smile. A smile Derek has been
getting since they first wound up in a pack together six years ago the I know something you
don't know smile. Derek's least favorite smile of all. What's with that face?
His best friend sips his coffee innocently, shrugging. I don't know what you're talking about.
---The next time Derek sees Stiles, he's in the parking lot of the complex waving a wrench around
in the air with the hood of his shitty car pulled up, yelling at himself about how he needs to take
better care of the thing. Not that any amount of TLC could ever bring that car back to whatever
former glory it once held Derek has to physically stop himself from towing it away in the
middle of the night to save Stiles and all other drivers on the road.
Derek narrows his eyes as he walks past to his own car, shaking his head and murmuring just so
bizarre...under his breath.
Another time Derek sees Stiles, the kid has a banana in his hand. Not a bag of groceries, not a
bunch of bananas, but a single, bright yellow banana.
Derek just got to his front door to find Stiles at his own door a few feet down. He's trying to hold
his phone to his ear while also holding the banana and pushing the key into the lock on his door,
all at the same time, and predictably...
The banana slips from his fingers and he curses, staring at the yellow fruit down on the ground.
I can't eat this now!
Derek narrows his eyes, slides inside his own apartment, and wonders at how Stiles can
literally eat a glazed donut off the ground, but apparently can't eat a slightly bruised banana.
He buys weird art from weird street vendors, sings songs from 2006 at the top of his lungs while
he takes his nightly shower, tries learning how to cook (fails at learning how to cook), attempts
fixing the leak underneath his sink on his own and winds up bursting it open even more, and in
general drives Derek up the fucking wall.
Then, Stiles starts his New Year's Resolution (on March 23rd, the idiot starts his New Year's
Resolution) to put more muscle onto his naturally lean and thin frame. The elevator dings open,
with Derek waiting outside, to Stiles dragging a gigantic gym bag across the floor, grunting the
entire way. It's weights, he tells Derek around a round of huffing and puffing, I'm going to
start working on my bod.
Right, Derek says in response, stepping inside the elevator with raised eyebrows thinking
maybe the polite, gentlemanly thing to do would be to stop and ask Stiles if he needs any help
with that. But then, watching Stiles half bent over with a sweaty neck, lower back exposed from
his shirt riding up, all while panting is...much more fun, Derek decides. Much more fun. He
stands there and watches the scene unfold before him for as long as he can before the elevator
doors close, trying his hardest to look nonchalant or possibly even playfully mocking - but
knowing that if Stiles were to really look at him or pay him any mind at all, he'd notice the clear
mark of arousal all over his facial features and body language.
After that, Stiles actually does start working out in his apartment; and it's the single worst thing
that's ever happened to poor Derek Hale. For sometimes an entire hour, after dinner time but
before Stiles' nightly shower (Derek doesn't eavesdrop, okay, it's hard to not just overhear shit
as a werewolf), Stiles runs on his treadmill and lifts his weights. And it's so fucking horrible.
For one thing, Derek can smell the endorphins and sweat a mile away, and that alone is hard
enough to fucking deal with; because Stiles normally smells appetizing enough. Add in a few
drops of workout sweat and bursts of adrenaline, and it becomes...orgasmic. For another thing,
just to add insult to an already festering injury, Stiles makes near pornographic noises the entire
fucking time. He says shit like love the burn, love the pain, feels good it's it's just uncouth. It
is fucking uncouth is what it is.
Sometimes when he has his personal Derek time, alone in his bed in the dark, sliding his hand
underneath the waistband of his briefs, Derek hears the echoes of Stiles' idiotic workouts. It's
humiliating and embarrassing, and Derek has half a mind to bang on the door and tell Stiles to
keep it in his pants.
Deep down Derek knows that, really, Stiles keeping it in his pants is the literal last thing he
wants. But he's still kind of denying that whole bit.
---Stiles leaves an entire basket full of his clothes down in the laundry room.
On his way downstairs with his own bag full of sweat stained articles, he caught Stiles' scent so
strong that he assumed the kid would be down there himself; drinking coffee black and bouncing
all around the walls while folding his things neatly and chattering to someone about how
management really needs to get better dryers.
Instead, he comes into a dead silent room, not a single machine running, with a basket of freshly
washed and dried Stiles clothes sitting dead in the center of the table. Derek furrows his brow,
because who the hell spends two hours down here washing and meticulously folding their
laundry only to completely forget about it?
With a huff, he throws his own load into the wash, grabs Stiles' basket and hops back onto the
elevator. He tries to ignore the way Stiles' scent wafts directly up inside his nostrils, the way it
curls around his brain and separates itself off into specific perfumes honey, lemongrass,
pumpkin...
Stiles smells fucking good, all right? There. He said it. After two months of studiously ignoring
the way the scent sometimes wafts in underneath his door when Stiles walks by, or the way it
sneaks in through the vents, or that it clings to him after standing in the elevator with the kid, he
acknowledges that it isn't exactly the most offensive scent he's ever encountered.
A basket full of his clothes, including underwear, really puts the scent on overdrive. The urge to
just kind of...pick up the shirt sitting on top of the pile and wrap it around his face, choke himself
with it like some kind of primal caveman, is a little bit overwhelming.
He clenches his jaw and wills the elevator to go faster.
Two sharp knocks on Stiles' door, and then he hears the pittering of Stiles' feet on the hardwood
floors, closer, and closer, before, who is it?
Derek huffs. It's Derek. From next door.
A series of locks unclick (he has at least five of them that's nice and safe not that Derek cares
about whether or not Stiles is safe or anything, holy shit) and then Stiles is standing there in
nothing but a pair of ill fitting pajama bottoms, a pen hanging out of his mouth, glasses askew on
his face. Before he can help himself, Derek's eyes roam down Stiles' pale, creamy chest, and he
gets his first real look at the tattoo Stiles always has hidden underneath a shirt. It's a huge,
hulking, black thing outlined with water colors and intricately lined out wings and colors and
lines and Derek thinks it looks like a bird but he can't put his finger exactly on which bird
because its claws end right at Stiles' nipple and - Is that my laundry?
Derek blinks away, to look into the kid's eyes, and luckily it seems like Stiles didn't notice Derek
eye-fucking him and his tattoo seconds before. You left it down in the laundry room.
Stiles gets a surprised look on his face, before shrugging. That makes sense. How'd you know it
was mine?
It's an innocent enough question, said with a small smile and a tip of the head, with curiosity
instead of any kind of accusation, but all the same Derek freezes up the same way he always
does whenever anyone asks a question whose truthful answer goes something like well, you see,
every full moon...
Swallowing, Derek says, I recognized the shirt on top.
Stiles glances down at it the maroon shirt with HARVARD written across it, and then in smaller
print down below, just kidding that Stiles wore last time he bought his 99 cent chili dog and
Derek watched with narrowed eyes through the curtains in his apartment muttering about
calories.
And how many people own a shirt that idiotic, right? Stiles flashes his white teeth and scoops
the basket out of Derek's hands. Thanks for bringing it up!
Then they just stand there for a few seconds, with Stiles smiling politely and Derek hovering in
the doorway like a socially awkward tool.
Did you- Derek clears his throat and scratches nervously behind his ear, did you...get your
mail ever?
Stiles looks confused, as he drops the basket full of clothes down onto the ground and sends a
wave of Stiles' apartment smell in Derek's general direction. Honey and lemongrass, like
always, but mixed with the macaroni and cheese baking in the oven and the candles he's burning
in his bedroom. Derek clenches his jaw against it. Oh! Stiles smacks his forehead with the
palm of his hand and snorts. Because I broke my key in my mailbox the other day! Right. Um
yeah. I got my mail after the dicklord of a manager charged me up the ass for the box
replacement. Like it's my fault that I-
Used the wrong key in the lock. Derek finishes for him, raising his eyebrows.
Stiles blinks at him. How'd you know I used the wrong key?
Derek is literally burying his fucking grave with every single word he says to his kid. Even if he
weren't a werewolf, the implication that he just stands there and stares at every thing Stiles does
is mortifying enough to put him in his tomb. I just guessed.
Stiles finally fixes his crooked glasses and appraises Derek like he always does the same way
he did when he guessed his zodiac sign correctly. Do you wanna come inside?
More than anything in the entire known universe, a perverted, horny voice in the back of
Derek's mind snarls with intent. But real Derek, the one with half a brain, stutters for a moment,
before coming up with, actually, my laundry's in the wash so I should...
The kid waves his hand like it's no big deal, gives Derek one last killer smile, and closes the
door.
---Dammit. Fuck. Come the fuck on...
That's what wakes Derek up at four in the morning Stiles cursing and muttering to himself out
in the hallway accompanied by the jingling of his keys and the telltale sound of him trying to stuff
a key into a lock metal clanging and scraping against metal.
Thinking that he has to be able to unlock his door eventually, Derek just rolls over and tries to go
back to sleep.
The muttering continues. So does the metal and the jingling, more forcefully this time around.
Derek lays there and listens to this for at least five entire minutes, staring up at the ceiling with a
sigh as he rubs his eyes.
Stiles coming home super late is one thing he does it literally all of the time. He stays out all
night drinking or grocery shopping or god knows what else and then stumbles home, making a
racket and waking Derek up and reminding the wolf that yes, I exist, and I smell good. Normally
though, he's at least able to open his god damn apartment door without driving Derek near
insane.
Derek is just about to throw his covers off his body to go yell at him, or something even worse,
like proposition him or ask him out on a date, when a small noise from the hall stops him. The
jingling and scraping has stopped, and instead has been replaced by...crying. Stiles is crying
outside his apartment door at four in the morning
Alarmed, Derek focuses his hearing and takes a few sniffs out of the air. The usual smells of
Stiles permeate as he expected, but there's something else there. A tinge of something sour and
metallic Stiles is hurt and crying.
When he gets outside his door, he finds Stiles crumpled down on the ground beside his own
door, back against the wall, crying with a small, thin cast is wrapped around his wrist.
For a few seconds Derek just stands there, and Stiles looks up at him through teary eyes, bitterly
trying to swipe them out of his face before the other man notices. But of course, he knows that
Derek has already noticed it would be impossible not to.
Hey, Stiles says with a tight throat, still swiping tears off his cheeks. I was just...
The silence hangs on for a few seconds, before another round of near hysterical sobbing breaks
out of Stiles' chest, and Derek acknowledges that, whatever this is, he's a part of it now. With a
long suffering sigh, and a glance towards the ceiling, Derek takes two steps closer to the ball on
the ground that is Stiles, and bends his knees to crouch down beside him.
Need help? Without waiting for a response, he picks up the key ring that Stiles had dropped
down on the ground. He sifts through the keys, about to ask Stiles which one opens his front
door, when his fingers land on one bronze key with a piece of beige electrical tape stuck on the
top with the word HOME written in sloppy writing. Derek frowns. You shouldn't mark your
keys like this.
Stiles sniffles. I always forget which is which.
For a second, the wolf just stays crouched there, indecisive. He could just open up the door,
manhandle Stiles inside, and then wash his hands of the entire situation, forget it ever happened,
go back to grunting acknowledgments at him as they pass in the hallway or get stuck together in
the elevator. That would probably be the best option.
Instead, he scratches his face with another heavy sigh, and asks, do you wanna, like, talk about
it...
Stiles sniffles again, more deliberately, and wipes his eyes with his good hand again. It's
nothing. I was just I was just...
Derek waits, sweeping his eyes all over Stiles' face cheeks reddened and hot from the tears,
eyes bloodshot with accentuating purple bags underneath, hair a complete wreck. Maybe it's
fucked up to think or it's definitely fucked up to think when he's crying in front of him but
Derek thinks Stiles looks particularly enticing, like this.
I sprained my wrist, he finally chokes out, huffing out a broken sob, because I was being
stupid and they dragged me to the hospital even though I already owe them-
He doesn't finish the sentence, but Derek can understand well enough. Stiles has debt. Like every
other 20 year old on the face of the planet, Stiles has a lot of debt, which explains the ramen and
the fact that he drives the world's shittiest old Jeep and wears clothes that all look about six
years old. Derek had assumed he didn't have money.
It's stupid, Stiles continues on, a short laugh coming out of his throat. It's really stupid. I'm
being stupid. Just...my dad's really mad at me and my friends are really mad at me...and I just
couldn't open the door and I woke you up and I know I wake you up all the time because I'm the
worst neighbor ever and-
Derek rises from his crouch and shoves the HOME key into the lock, twisting it open with a
familiar creak. Stiles looks up at him, amber eyes wide.
Well, come on, he says gruffly, bending down to grab at his elbow gently to pull him to a
standing position. Up you go.
Stiles complies with a dazed look on his face, and into the darkness of Stiles' apartment they go.
One flick of the light, and Derek can't say he's surprised by what he finds. He's never been inside
this place before, has only seen the shock-red color of the walls and a few of his odd trinkets
from over his shoulders, but looking at it in all its glory...yeah. Derek isn't surprised.
It's not messy per se, or at least not messy in the sense of dishes and trash and clutter
everywhere, but it's hard to see any sense of organization or theme. Just bizarre decorations (like
a tiny dragon made out of paper mache' perched on top of his ancient looking television) and
strange shaped furniture (his couch looks eerily like a hamburger) and weird tapestries with
deities Derek has never seen before stitched into them hung over the windows.
The scent of Stiles is even stronger standing inside his home it's wafting off of every square
inch of the place and Derek feels about ready to wrap himself inside one of the tapestries and
inhale like a starving man. Luckily he's pretty good at controlling himself, because otherwise...
Stiles plops down onto his hamburger and sighs. I'd offer you something to eat, but... all I have
is ramen and kraft macaroni and cheese, Derek finishes in his head.
You should probably go to bed anyway, Derek supplies, eyeing the way Stiles looks about
ready to pass out at any second.
I won't sleep, Stiles says ruefully, with a strange smile that doesn't match the rest of his face or
his words. Can't sleep lately. I think - he leans in, almost conspiratorially, like he's about to
tell Derek some huge secret, ...I think this place is haunted.
The wolf has heard Stiles say as much on the phone to his friends before, and has even more
times heard him mutter it to himself when he's alone late at night and thinks no one can hear him.
Stiles' voice carries a lot more than he thinks it does. Especially when he has a werewolf living
right next to him.
It's not haunted, Stiles. Because Derek would've been able to sense a presence, malicious or
benign, within two seconds of being inside of it. It's an old place. Pipes clang and floorboards
creak.
Stiles doesn't look convinced. He just casts his eyes all around his living room with a suspicious
air to him. I sense energies.
Derek nearly has to slap his hand over his mouth to keep himself from heckling at him. You
think you have the sixth sense?
That's not what I mean, his voice is low, serious. Probably more serious than Derek has ever
seen him before. Sometimes...I just get the sense something's off around here. Like I'm not
seeing the whole picture.
Hmmm, Derek says; if Stiles hadn't been crying five minutes earlier, he'd be laughing directly
in his face. Maybe it's the chili dogs.
Stiles turns to look at him with a bemused smile on his face, and then squints his eyes slightly.
closer...
He could either just get out of the elevator and walk past Stiles to be greeted with the kid's
perfunctory HEY! enthusiastically mouthed at him like he does every single time he passes by
Derek while on the phone and then consequently spend the next thirty minutes of his life
cursing his stupidity at not saying or doing anything in response.
Or...
He could slide back inside the elevator like he had just gotten in and bask in Stiles' bizarrely
comforting scent for fifteen seconds, while listening to his soothing raspy voice that somehow
has a talent of making its way straight down to hisStiles is rounding the corner, and Derek leaps back inside the elevator, breathing out a shaky
breath and wondering what the actual hell he thinks he's doing.
...I can help you do your job. I love to help, you know that! I'm not as stupid as you seem to -
I don't think you're stupid, Stiles, the range is close enough now that Derek can hear the kid's
father's voice on the other end of the phone. I think you're a kid.
I'm twenty three, Stiles comes into sight right as Derek is pressing the open door button to
leave it open for him. Upon seeing Derek standing there, he grins, HEY! with his mouth, and
slides into the elevator beside Derek.
I don't want to see you sniffing around my case files anymore. That's final.
But - Derek can hear that the other line has gone dead, and then Stiles is muttering under his
breath, something about stupid dads and not just a kid with a series of expletives thrown in for
good measure. He glances down at the buttons on the elevator, looks at Derek, and then says,
are you just hanging out in the elevator for fun, or...?
Derek furrows his brow, before remembering one pretty important little detail. He never actually
pressed any of the buttons on the stupid panel to indicate which floor he was planning on going
to. So now he's just standing there, staring into Stiles' amused face, looking like a complete
fucking idiot who doesn't know how to be a normal human being.
Reaching forward, he slams his thumb down on floor.
Me, too, Stiles says, waving his arm (with the cast still intact) in the air a bit.
The doors slide closed, and Stiles' scent gets trapped inside the steel box, enticingly mixing with
Derek's and for a few seconds Derek shuts his eyes and imagines what it be like to have this
smell all of the time. Like, in his apartment. In his bed. That interesting mix of honey and
lemongrass and pumpkin thrown in with Derek's own scent of ash and cinnamon and gunpowder,
all around him, on him. On his clothes and hands from running the tips of his fingers down Stiles'
exposed neck and -
Thanks for helping me out the other night, Stiles snaps Derek out of his inappropriate fantasy
with a nervous voice. Like he doesn't really want to be saying it, but knows he should say it
anyway. It was nice of you. Embarrassing of me, but...
Derek clears his throat, like he's about to say something super great and profound or at the bare
minimum something more than a grunt and a shake of his head. But, alas. A grunt and a headshake
is all Stiles gets in response, and he doesn't even look put out or hurt or annoyed or anything. He
actually looks like it's exactly as he expected, from the way he just smiles shyly and looks away,
biting down on the bottom of his full pink lips.
The elevator slams to a stop, and just before it dings, Derek blurts out in a rush, What's your
tattoo?
Hmm? Ding. What's my tattoo of?
The doors slide open, and Derek nods. Stiles smiles more widely now, showing all of his bright
white teeth off even in the dim, shitty lighting of the elevator shaft. It's an eagle. It's supposed to
be this, like, symbol of the triumph of light over darkness, you know? Out in the lobby, Mrs.
Norris is standing there with narrowed eyes, shifting them between Stiles and Derek, waiting for
them to free up the elevator. I don't know, I just got it because...I wanted that kind of feeling
where I knew I was going to come out the other side, no matter what. Maybe it's stupid.
It is stupid. It is so fucking stupid and full of that weird ooga booga bullshit Stiles is always
going on and on about, like sensing presences and zodiac signs and burning incense and
meditating for hours at a time, all things that make Derek roll his eyes and scowl.
The doors start to slide closed, and Derek throws his hand out in between them begrudgingly,
they slide back open again. Mrs. Norris looks like she wants to start whacking the two of them
with her purse.
Stiles in general is stupid. He's he's fucking weird and he says weird shit and does weird shit,
and pisses Derek off, and always has that stupid smug look on his face. He's just peculiar. He
eats donuts off the ground! He probably has thousands upon thousands of dollars worth of debt
wracked up, along with nothing more than 67 cents in his bank account! He drives the world's
worst car and is a huge nerd about working out and a nerd in general, and he has a stupid tattoo
with a stupid meaning and Derek likes Stiles. Likes him, likes him, yes, in a romantic sort of a way Derek is interested in
Stiles. The revelation is absolutely terrifying to him, really more like paralyzing and debilitating
altogether, so he just stands there with his mouth hanging open, after Stiles has just told him what
his stupid tattoo means and Mrs. Norris still is just standing there waiting for them to get the hell
out and make room for her on the lift.
It's - Derek swallows, trying to look anywhere but at Stiles' ridiculously adorable eyes, it's
nice. I think it's nice.
naked body all over the walls of his shower and getting his scent all over everything, mixing it
together with Derek's, infecting the entire place. Normally, Stiles sings in the shower but today,
he's downgraded himself to just a couple of choruses to popular songs underneath his breath.
Because, foolishly, he thinks Derek can't hear him.
He can hear every thing. The click of the shampoo bottle, the sound of the goop landing on Stiles'
open and waiting palm, the squelch of noise as he starts lathering his hair with the stuff...
Derek crunches on five pretzels at once, glaring out the window. He knows there are going to be
Stiles hairs left over in the drain, and lord knows that Derek doesn't have the self control to not
unscrew the drain just so he can fish the strands out, like some kind of weird animal.
If he doesn't get the strands out, though, his shower will continue to reek of Stiles for weeks. Of
course, Derek's body is saying yes...yes to that. Love that. Need that. But Derek's mind is
saying are you a fucking pervert?
`
Derek isn't sure anymore. He doesn't know, dammit! IS HE A PERVERT? MAYBE!
All he's completely sure of is that he's trying his absolute damnedest to not think about the fact
that Stiles is completely ass naked less than ten feet away from where Derek is currently
standing, and the thought makes his toes curl.
Eventually, the shower turns off.
And so, the moment Derek has been dreading happens when Stiles opens the door, in what feels
like slow motion, and out comes the steam. Oh, Christ, the steam. The fucking steam, the
vaporized version of the Derek/Stiles scent dampening Derek's skin while Stiles himself wafts
out, holding a damn towel in his hands and raising his eyebrows at Derek in the corner of the
kitchen. Hamper?
Hamper. Right. Right. Because Derek isn't going to take that thing and use it as a pillow tonight.
Not at all.
How long have you been living here? Stiles asks as Derek deposits the towel in the proper
place.
About a year, now.
A year? He looks all around himself with his doe eyes, biting his lip. You've kept the place
pretty...neat.
The wolf frowns; imagining that Stiles finds him boring, and by all rights, he probably does, but
it really doesn't sit well with him. He wants Stiles to find him as fascinating as he finds Stiles,
he wants Stiles to think he's this really cool guy with lots of accolades and friends and a life...
How'd you know about my tattoo?
Stiles turns to him with a dropped jaw not in shock, but like he was about to say something
else and got cut off by Derek's intrusive, conversation changing question.
A faint blush curls up Stiles' soft cheeks, and the telltale sound of his heart rate speeding up
pounds against Derek ears. I, er - Stiles scratches the back of his neck, bashful, remember
that fire scare when I had just moved in?
Derek did remember the fire scare. The dude who lives below him, a thirty something going
through an intense crisis because he can't find a wife and brings home all these different girls
from bars, set a lasagna on fire in the oven and the entire building was evacuated. Derek had
been napping on the couch at the time the alarms went off, and went stampeding outside in
nothing but his sweatpants.
That was the first night that Derek noticed there was something peculiar about Stiles; because
Stiles came strolling out without a care in the world, holding a mug of coffee, elbowing all the
tenants in the sides and saying how about them firefighters, amirite?
Of course everyone else loved him, or at least were friendly and pleasant to him, but Derek
found him off from the get-go.
That was the only time I ever saw it.
He seems embarrassed to admit it; like it's some huge humiliating secret that he might've slightly
checked a shirtless guy out. Little does this poor little man know about all the insanely intimate
details about himself that Derek knows.
Does it mean anything?
Derek smiles. He has a human-proof excuse for this. It's for the three women I had in my life.
Mother, two sisters.
Stiles blinks a bit at the word had, and Derek is scared for a few seconds that he's going to put
on the kicked-puppy face that everyone always gives him and say oh no, what happened? It's
one thing that doesn't ever stop being hard. Having to explain every thing to everyone, again and
again really, that's why he doesn't like to date much. Tragic backstories, and sharing details
about himself...it's just not something he enjoys.
But, instead, Stiles just raises his eyebrows and grins honestly. That's awesome, dude. I've been
thinking about getting a tattoo for my mom but the only idea I have is a bit out there.
Derek knows, from accidentally overheard conversations, that Stiles' mother passed away a long
time ago, so he doesn't ask. What's the idea?
She really liked nature, and she used to take me out to the preserve a lot for picnics. It was kind
of, like, our thing and I thought I would get her favorite animal... another bashful smile
crosses Stiles' face, as he traces an index finger up the length of his lower arm. ...a wolf, right
here.
Another fizzling happens in Derek's brain, and he short circuits once more.
The thought. The image. Of Stiles having a wolf tattooed on his skin somewhere it fucks with
Derek's brain. It absolutely fucks with him. That's really the moment that Derek knows he's in too
fucking deep now, to ever really turn back.
So when Stiles leaves, Derek just gives the fuck in and fishes the towel out of his laundry basket
and shoves it into his face, inhaling so deeply that Stiles' scent lingered on the sides of his
nostrils.
---A man with a car like yours should not live in a place like this, Lydia has been making this
same exact comment every single time she's come over; which, granted, hasn't been very many
times because she more or less boycotts the place, but still. It gets old.
I think it's great! Scott butts in, bounding up the steps at the head of the group while holding
tightly onto the basket of sandwiches Allison made. It has lots of charm! Right?
Allison hmm's in agreement.
The pack has a standing agreement to eat a potluck style meal at one person's house every month
it's gone around in rotation, and now it's Derek's turn yet again. It's not that Derek doesn't enjoy
hosting a lunch party for his friends, it's just that he'd... really rather not ever have to do it. Ever.
He's rather have someone else do it, always.
He had to go to the grocery store and buy the soda Scott likes and the specific kind of fancy
water that Lydia likes, and he had to actually cook something (potato salad, harder than it
sounds, if you're Derek) instead of grabbing takeout from one of the menus he has magnetized to
his otherwise bare fridge top.
Maybe it's nice to have some kind of tradition. Maybe.
Once they all gather around Derek's door waiting for it to be unlocked, with Lydia chattering to
them about all the latest drama in her family (there's always something going on in Lydia's
family), Derek hears the telltale sounds of Stiles' own front door opening and closing, and his
hands completely freeze.
Logically, the smarter thing to do would've been to thrust the door open as fast as possible and
herd everyone inside before they could even glance in the kid's direction, but with Stiles...lately
he's just been doing the complete brain malfunction thing.
Stiles, for his part, just flashes a friendly grin at the group as he locks his door behind him but
Scott turns to Allison with the single hugest grin ever seen on his face (which is really, really
saying something) and mouths that's him.
That's him? Lydia whispers, crowding around Scott to get a better look at Stiles obliviously
struggling with his lock. Hmmm...
All three pairs of eyes are staring at him, so when he lifts his head to walk away, he gets a
bemused look on his face.
Derek absolutely wants to lay down and die, right here on the ground. Just fucking get the pain
over with already.
Hey! Scott is the first to speak, waving a tan hand in his direction. I was in your business
class a year ago!
Stiles smiles back at him with equal verve, taking a couple steps forward. I think I remember
you. You were the kid who would call his girlfriend every day before class started.
Yeah! Like this is something to be proud of, he agrees with a nod. Then, he points at Allison
next to him and says, this is Allison, then to a scrutinizing Lydia, and Lydia.
Stiles smiles at them all individually, before sliding his eyes to Derek, who's still stuck frozen
still with his hand on his doorknob. These are your friends?
The wolf swallows, avoiding eye contact because looking into those amber eyes always fucks
with him. Yes, my friends. These are these are my friends. I have friends, he thinks, I'm not
a freak!
Have you lived in Beacon Hills your entire life? Lydia asks, stalking a bit closer to Stiles like
she's sizing him up, or trying to see through his skin to figure out if he's a snake person
underneath it all.
Stiles takes it all in stride, blinking at her with a faint smile. I mean, I went to college in New
York, but other than that, yeah. I bet you've all met my dad, a beat of silence as he grins, the
Sheriff?
Derek wants to punch himself in the face for not putting two and two together a lot sooner.
Stilinski. How many Stilinskis could there possibly be in Beacon Hills? Of course Stiles is
related to the Sheriff that had to wrestle his sixteen year old self into the back of a cop car to
calm him down after his entire house went up in flames. Now that he thinks about it, recalling the
older man's face in his mind, the resemblances are almost startling; aside from the eyes.
The eyes, Stiles must get from his mother.
You're the Sheriff's son? Allison sounds incredulous, eyes wide. You're Stanislaw? Allison
Argent knows the entire police department on a pretty personal level; or at the very least spends
enough time with them that she's heard the Sheriff talk about his unruly son Stanislaw. Hell, the
entire pack knows the police department inside and out. Yet Derek's never even seen Stiles
before how's that possible?
his car, his lips set in a grim line as he paws around inside the engine.
Derek narrows his eyes. The absolute last place any sane human being should be during a
thunder storm is lodged between a car engine and a car hood. Didn't the Sheriff ever teach Stiles
how to not get electrocuted and die? Did that conversation ever come up in their household?
He shrugs into his jacket, and heads out the door.
When Stiles catches sight of Derek coming over to him, he smiles a bit ruefully at him through
the rain, sitting up as straight as he can in his current position. Need any help? Derek asks in a
bit of a yell so he can be heard over the roar of the weather.
I'm hopeless at cars, he remarks, dropping his wrench down on top of the engine and sighing.
I probably should get a car that actually works, one of these days.
Come down from there, before you hurt yourself. Derek holds out his hand, and Stiles grabs
onto it without a second's hesitation his long, soft, languid fingers fitting perfectly around
Derek's calloused skin and Derek helps him climb out from underneath the hood.
He almost slips a bit, but Derek manages to catch him right on time; he receives a breathy laugh
close to his ear for the effort, and then Stiles is standing on his own two feet down on the ground.
Derek knows that he doesn't necessarily have to keep holding onto Stiles' hand like this, that
actually it's a little bit weird he still hasn't let go, but he's taking his time with it. Slowly pulling
his fingers out of Stiles', relishing the way Stiles' smooth skin feels up against his own.
What's the problem? The wolf asks as soon as he gets his wits about him again, hand dropping
down to his side.
I think it's dead, dude, and it's funny hearing someone like Stiles use the word dude so
casually. Like, doorknobs.
Doorknobs?
Dead as. Dead as doorknobs.
Derek can't argue with that. It would be in Stiles' absolute best interest to get a new car but
he's eyeing the thing with such a sad expression on his face, as if he's just sent his only son off to
war, that Derek finds himself saying, it'll get fixed, I'm sure. Just...not in the middle of a
thunderstorm.
Stiles snorts a laugh, before reaching forward to undo the prop from underneath the hood, the
creak of metal mixing with the zings of the rain. Well, I should probably prepare for the
possibility that it'll never run again. Get driven around everywhere by my dad, or something
God, how embarrassing would that be? Getting rides in the back of my dad's cruiser.
He slams the hood shut, and runs a shaking hand through the completely soaked brown mop on
top of his head. Droplets of water come flinging out as he does so, and Derek watches as the
Stiles-infested water goes dripping down onto the ground, getting washed out by the rest of the
rain pouring down around them.
Never in his entire life has he seen any single person look so incredibly enticing when soaked
completely through by the rain. Stiles' huge doe eyes are framed by lashes clad in droplets, his
face reddened and raw from Stiles wiping the water off his cheeks, white undershirt clinging to
his chest so hard that Derek can see the outline of his tattoo clear as day through the wet fabric.
He looks like some wet dream of Derek's come to life right in front of his very eyes, smirking
and dripping wet. What Derek wouldn't give to lean forward and rip those wet clothes clean off
of Stiles' body, to shove him back up against the hood of his car and just fuck him. Derek really
wants to fuck Stiles. To be crystal clear he doesn't want to have sex with him or do it or make
love. He wants to fuck every last brain cell out of his head until the kid can't even talk anymore.
It's probably that train of thought that leads Derek to sputter the following words - I could
drive you around. If you needed rides places, I could be the one to um drive you. Places. I
have a car.
It's the single most depressingly convoluted thing Derek has ever uttered, and he can already feel
the embarrassment and humiliation wrapping its tendrils around him urging him to say um,
nevermind and go running off into the woods somewhere to sulk.
Stiles grins at him, though, like he finds it endearing. Oh? What kinda places would you drive
me to?
It takes Derek several seconds to piece together the fact that Stiles is kind of flirting with him, in
a really obvious no-doubt-about it way, too. Like the way stereotyped blonde girls in movies
always flirt after pulling their dresses up a bit more. Um I could drive you to a place
where...people typically eat dinner?
If I didn't know any better, Stiles takes a step closer to him, so there's only about five inches of
space in between their chests, so Derek can feel the heat radiating off of Stiles' skin, I'd think
you were propositioning me.
Derek swallows and tries to read the younger man's face. His eyes are as huge as ever, but
slightly lidded and he doesn't look annoyed, or put off, or disgusted. He looks, dare Derek say
it, turned on. Even though ten seconds ago he was lamenting the possible death of his car. I am.
Propositioning you. For dinner. This is me, asking you out.
Stiles smiles straight into his face, all white teeth and moles and upturned nose that Derek kinda
wants to nibble on. This is me, saying yes.
They just stand there for a few seconds, Derek probably grinning like an absolute idiot down at
the smaller man (and he is smaller even if he's only a couple of inches shorter than Derek, his
body type in general is just...small when compared to Derek's huge, broad frame), while Stiles
grins right back up at him, eyes scanning his face every few seconds, like he's mapping
something out.
Well? He says, finally, grin fading away into a smirk. Are you gonna kiss me?
Which is what leads to the two of them making out in the middle of a thunderstorm beside Stiles'
old beat up Jeep, what leads to Derek finally getting to put his hand on Stiles' bare chest as he
slides it underneath the damp material of his shirt, what leads to Stiles licking into his mouth
with such energy and enthusiasm that it really all goes straight down to Derek's dick in a flurry of
feeling and blood rushing through his skin and then Stiles pulls away and says, are you gonna
invite me to your place, before I catch a cold in these wet clothes?
Which is what leads to them stumbling into the lobby of the building, dripping rain water
everywhere and tracking mud in their wake. Stiles laughs, and caws a half-hearted sorry! to the
general manager behind his glass window, narrowing his eyes at the two men making a mess of
his once-clean floors.
The elevator doors shut behind them, and they each stand on either side of the elevator, facing
outwards towards each other, panting. Stiles looking long and lanky and unbelievably gorgeous,
hair a mess on top of his head, lips parted, eyes lidded while Derek just leans back against his
side of the elevator and tries his hardest to not look like he's fucking the shit out of Stiles in his
mind; but Stiles...senses energies. In Stiles' words, he senses energies. So, he sweeps his eyes
down Derek's body, raises his eyebrows, and says, in the single most pornographic moment of
Derek's entire life, are you going to fuck me?
Derek leaps across the elevator, pins Stiles back against his side, and like someone he doesn't
even fucking recognize (someone who definitely isn't himself, or at least not himself in his right
mind) shoves his entire hand down Stiles' wet jeans and paws at his dick almost angrily.
Stiles spreads his legs a little, dropping his mouth in a silent moan, staring directly into Derek's
eyes, and Derek stares straight back; reveling in the faces he can make Stiles make just from
putting his hand against him. You're really hot, Stiles breathes out, biting his lip. Which I
know is a really nngh lame thing to say, and not at all creative or interesting, but it's true. I
find you aesthetically appealing. To my eyes.
Derek's hurrumphs in response, apparently going non-verbal at this stage of sexual arousal, and
the elevator dings open to their floor.
If it weren't for Stiles shoving Derek's hand out of his pants and saying, we can't fuck in the
elevator, Derek, then Derek probably would have actually just ripped Stiles' clothes off right
then and there and started fucking him in an elevator car. The doors would've slid open on the
second floor to Mrs. Norris, who'd have a heart attack and die right there on the spot at the sight
of seeing two men engaged in lascivious sex acts.
And, also, I think your car is hot, Stiles says to Derek as he struggles to open the front door to
his apartment, keys jingling and slipping through his wet, rushing fingers. I can't wait for you to
drive me to dinner in that car.
The door flings open and the second it's closed again, Derek is ripping his jacket off and flinging
it in a wet clump somewhere on the ground, followed by his shirt. In front of him, Stiles is
backing away towards the couch, keeping his eyes trained on Derek, as he sheds his own clothes
piece by piece.
I can't wait to fuck you in that car, Derek says and it, once again, doesn't sound like
something he'd normally say so he thinks that Stiles' scent does something funny to his brain.
Like, turns him into some kind of hyper-dirty, sex-depraved animal. Which makes sense, looking
at him and smelling him like this.
Whoa! Stiles caws around a laugh, raising his eyebrows again. Before or after dinner?
Both, Derek stalks towards him, wearing nothing but his unbuttoned jeans while Stiles doesn't
have a stitch of clothing on him, completely naked in the middle of Derek's living room, still
damp from the rain.
Stiles drops onto the couch with a smirk, raising those ridiculous eyebrows again, and it's really
on autopilot that Derek drops down to his knees in front of him and shoves his face into his bare
crotch, inhaling.
Derek has always known that a person's natural scent is always stronger in the groin area, of
course it's basic 101 stuff to him, after being a werewolf his entire life. But, like this, sniffing
at Stiles after months of only having the surface level scent...it's like he's finally been given
water again after wandering around in the desert for a week. Which is really dramatic, and not
normally the kind of thing Derek thinks or says about other people, because it's dangerous to be
that invested in another person, but it's also just plain true. Stiles' scent is almost intoxicating,
as Derek noses gently at his balls, laps experimentally at the tip of his dick, and for a few
seconds Derek thinks I could literally do this for hours, until Stiles pulls gently on his hair.
C'mon, he groans out, his hips spasming forward of their own accord.
Looking up from his spot on the ground, the sight that Derek sees is truly one he wishes he had a
camera for. Stiles sprawled out, all long limbs and flushed face, panting with his eyes screwed
shut and pink lips parted that's something Derek wants to see all the time. Framed in a picture
on his bedside table, for him to look at every night before he goes to sleep.
Without further ado, Derek sucks Stiles up into his mouth, slowly and carefully working his
tongue around the length of him. Stiles' fingers tighten in Derek's hair as he turns to absolute putty
everywhere else; just going limp and letting Derek do whatever he wants. Derek reaches his
hand up and feels down along the skin where he knows that the tattoo is, runs his hand all along
the ink, sliding his fingers around a nipple.
After a few seconds, though, Stiles starts to get chatty. I've wanted you since that time with the
fire and the lasagna, his fingers begin threading gently through Derek's hair, you didn't have a
shirt on.
Derek hmm's around Stiles' dick and Stiles shivers.
He's about to shove his dick inside the Sheriff's son, holy shit.
Stiles looks over his shoulder again, and huffs in annoyance. Are you going to fuck me? Or just
think about it for a second?
Derek slides inside slowly, making sure to watch as much of Stiles' face as he can see for any
signs of distress or serious pain, until he bottoms out. Stiles pants, adjusting his elbows on the
back of the couch.
Okay? Derek asks, stroking at his back again. Stiles nods, so Derek starts to move. Slowly, at
first, all the way out, and then all the way in, in a slow back and forth motion that has Stiles
dropping his head and making tiny, adorable sounds into his chest. You feel, a breath, shallow,
good. He really does hot, and tight, and the smell, the scent of Stiles' arousal and the sounds
he's making, all of it together is starting to feel a lot like too much in Derek's mind; sex hasn't
been this fucking good since...
Sex has never been this fucking good.
Duh, is what Stiles chooses to say in response, remaining cheeky even with a dick up his ass,
of course I do.
For the third time, a little piece of Derek's control slips clean out of his fingers, and he shoves
Stiles forward until his elbows buckle out from underneath him, until his ass is as high in the air
as Derek can manage to get it, and starts fucking him just the way he imagined it when they
were still outside in the rain storm. With complete and total abandon, giving into whatever
strange side of him that Stiles manages to drag out.
Stiles, for his part, starts making the single most incredible sound Derek has ever heard in his
entire life; some weird cross between a moan and a cry, every single time Derek smashes into
his prostate, and it eggs him on to go harder, faster, even when he doesn't think he can anymore
without breaking Stiles clean in half.
Fuck, Stiles draws out the word stuttering around the pounding his body is receiving, I'm so
fucking close, just-
Just three more thrusts, as luck would have it, and then Stiles spills all over the cushions of
Derek's couch with a moan that everyone in the tri-state area probably heard. Scott definitely
heard it with his alpha senses, from three blocks away. He probably raised his fist in the air for
Allison to bump her own against, cawing, Derek finally put it in Stilinski! to get a small laugh
out of his girlfriend.
Derek follows soon after, bending completely over Stiles' limp body and sliding himself out
carefully.
Holy shit, Stiles pants underneath him, nice.
Yeah. Derek agrees distantly, climbing off of Stiles to flop down on his ass on the couch
beside him. Yeah...
Yeah, Stiles is still on his knees, I came on your couch. He says this like it's something he's
embarrassed about now as if there's really anything to be embarrassed about in front of person
who just had his dick in their mouth.
I came in your ass, Derek counters, trying to assuage him.
You came in a condom.
It's the thought that counts.
Oh, my God, Stiles is laughing yet again, finally lifting his head up to look at Derek through
laugh-squinted eyes. What does that even mean?
Derek doesn't know how to answer that, so he just lays back against his couch cushions and
waits for Stiles to become fully cognizant again or for him to at least get off his knees and stop
panting like he just ran a marathon.
It takes about twenty more seconds, but eventually, Stiles flips over and sinks into the cushions
opposite Derek, laying his long fingers across his stomach and smiling sleepily. Nice.
Derek stares back at him with a tiny grin. Me, or the sex?
Hmmm... Stiles makes a show of tapping on his chin, thinking about it, hemming and hawing,
tilting his head from side to side. It's adorable and Derek wants to lean over and kiss him, really
badly, but he's still so spent. Both.
You're hilarious, Derek says flatly, still keeping that doofy smile on his face.
You're hilarious. But he says it sincerely, with a pointed finger lazily swinging around in the
air.
You're more hilarious.
No, you hang up first!
Derek laughs, and Stiles laughs, and Derek wonders in the back of his mind why he ever thought
just because Stiles was strange that it was inherently a bad thing no one he's ever met before
would laugh while getting finger-fucked the way Stiles did, or crack jokes like this in the
afterglow. It is odd, and bizarre, and there's just no one like Stiles.
And it's not a bad thing.
Peculiar, yes. Bad? Not at all.
---Three weeks after that, at what Derek has learned is Stiles' favorite Chinese place, they begin
their annual fight over who gets which fortune cookie.
This one is closest to me, Stiles says, pointing at the one Derek is trying to reach for, so that
means it's my fortune.
Those fortunes aren't real, Derek has only said this ten thousand times, but no matter how many
times he says it, Stiles still gets that pinched expression on his face. Half of them aren't even
fortunes, Stanislaw. You are fun to be around. How is that a fortune?
You only try to reach for my fortune, Stiles scoops the plastic-wrapped cookie away from
Derek's reaching hand quickly, narrowing his eyes, because you know it'll piss me off. You're
such a sourpuss.
Derek watches as Stiles breaks open his cookie, stares blatantly as those huge amber eyes scan
over the red writing on the tiny slip of paper and keeps right on staring as he smiles hugely and
waves the fortune in Derek's face. You will walk the land of many countries. Now that's a
fortune. I wonder...European countries? I hope so, I've always wanted to go to Europe.
Like always, Stiles treats the fortunes like prophetic visions, and Derek lets him this time
around. Maybe Canada.
Stiles laughs, like it's the funniest thing ever, and shrugs. Maybe! Open yours up, he leans
forward across the table, balancing his chin on one hand, let's hear your future.
Derek's hand hovers over the cookie, waiting for him to scoop it up, while Stiles stares at him
with a soft smile, genuinely excited to hear whatever Derek's ridiculous fortune is going to end
up being, and he knows that this is the right moment. He doubts that there's ever really, truly, a
completely right moment to say what he has to say.
But the restaurant is completely empty aside from the two of them and the bored staff, and he
knows he can't keep the secret for any longer, because if he does, it'll just blow ridiculously out
of proportion when he finally gets around to do it and gets the balls.
So he pulls his hand back, runs it down the side of his face, and says, I have to tell you
something.
Stiles frowns, picking his chin up off his hand to straighten up. That doesn't sound good.
It's not it's not bad, Derek rushes to cover himself before Stiles' mind starts churning out a
million different horrible scenarios, the way that it always does. It's not bad. It's just...it's just
something I need to say.
Those amber eyes blink at him across the table, wide and curious, waiting.
Derek inhales deeply, swears under his breath, and says, quietly, I'm a werewolf.
Stiles scrunches his face up, like what the fuck, and he reaches for his water glass with a roll of
his eyes. That's it?
Um-
I already knew that. Stiles sucks long at his water, until it starts making that obnoxious noise at
the bottom of the glass with all the ice, and Derek gapes.
What what do you you knew? Of all the reactions Derek was expecting, this was definitely,
definitely not one of them.
Of course. I figured it out within the first week of us dating.
How?
Stiles grins, picks up Derek's fortune cookie, and holds it out to him with a shrug of his
shoulders. I told you. I sense energies.
End Notes
I know that ending is ambiguous as fuck and very reminiscent of Parrish (i.e. WTF IS
HE?!?!?!) but I couldn't help myself lmao. Thanks for reading!!!
Please drop by the archive and comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!