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The shit thing about it is that Stiles doesn’t even find out from Derek.
It’s his dad who brings it up. A passing mention with a sideways look that is his way of showing that while he doesn’t mean to pry, he is worried.
Stiles sputters for a moment before getting out something that doesn’t sound like gibberish. He escapes the conversation with the relevant details and most likely not revealing to his dad that the whole thing came out of left field.
Well, that's not completely true, he admits to himself afterwards when he's sprawled across his bed, debating on what his next move should be.
He remembers thinking about it in passing months ago. He’d stumbled across the date when looking up things on Peter, but didn’t dwell on it. The whisp of thought more of a ‘oh, that’s by Dad’s birthday’ than anything else. Plus, it’s not like he would write that down. That would be a bit far on its own without adding the fact that Derek likes to play snooping bloodhound on nights when he comes over to watch Stiles sleep, too wired to lay down himself.
Shaking his head, Stiles tries to get rid of the thought of an insomniac Derek poking around only to see that sharing a calendar week with “Dad’s 55th the old geezer!” It would be like rubbing salt in open, raw, oozing wounds. Salt laced with wolfsbane, even.
He sighs, flopping his arm over his face to cover it with the crook of his elbow, foot jiggling where it’s hanging of the edge of the bed, just reaching the floor.
“What to do, what to do, what to do,” he chants to himself. He knows that it’s one of the times where flying by the seat of his pants won’t do anybody any favors, so he decides to wait. It’s only Monday and the... well the day isn’t until Saturday, so there’s almost a whole week between now and then. Maybe Derek is just waiting until it’s closer to the actual day to say something.
Deciding to wait and give it a few days, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, tapping out a quick, nonsensical text to Derek. It’s just him rambling about dinner, barely more than a stray thought, but he knows that Derek will take it for what it means, that he’s thinking about him. Message sent, he locks the screen and plugs in his phone, setting it on the nightstand. He knows that it would be more likely for Derek to show up at his house than to reply, so he gets ready for bed.
If he spends the night tossing and turning before waking up a half hour before his alarm is set to go off, then that’s just because he needs a new mattress.
* * *
Stiles manages to last until Wednesday before he says anything. He would be proud of himself except for his silence was more due to not having anyone to talk about it with rather than any virtue on his part. He blames finally breaking on the fact that when he was laying in bed just past Tuesday’s witching hour, his mind drifted, and he started to wonder if maybe Derek has said something to the others.
He normally doesn’t feel left out being a human member of a werewolf pack, but maybe this is the exception that amends ‘pack business’ to ‘pack business for those with fur coats.’ He tries to push the unwanted thought out of his head and again he fails. The possibilities tumble around in his head through most of the night, only letting him sleep in bits and pieces.
When he gets up in the morning all he has is dark shadows under his eyes, paranoia like no tomorrow, and a plan on who he should talk to. Not that there was really a doubt about who. There’s only one person who’d know and tell Stiles what’s going on if it’s supposed to be some sort of werewolf only thing. Scott.
Stiles knows that he needs to get him alone and far away from any other werewolves, so he decides to make his move when they’re in study hall. “Did you know?” he whispers, tilting forward in his chair. They’re supposed to be cramming for the big English exam coming up in a week, but Stiles figures that they can sacrifice a few minutes. It’s important.
Frowning, Scott leans in. “Know what, dude?”
“About this weekend?” Stiles asks, glancing around, ready at any moment for Mr. Cockburn to jump out from behind a bookshelf and start banging their heads together like Professor Snape. “Did someone tell you?”
“Tell me what about this weekend?” Scott looks completely baffled. “Is something going on?”
Realizing that he knows nothing, Stiles shakes his head and says, “Naw man. It’s nothing.” He sits up and frowns down at his notebook, hoping Scott will think it’s his nearly illegible notes that he’s upset by.
Scott studies Stiles for a second, before nodding. “Alright, cool then. I was thinking about going to that new Vin Diesel movie with Allison, anyways. You in?”
“Think I’ll pass, but have fun watching a shitty movie.”
Scott gets indignant at that and starts to extoll the sheer genius of any movie that Vin Diesel has been in. “Except for that one with the thing, in the place, with that one guy. That was crap, but it wasn’t his fault.”
Stiles shakes his head and rolls his eyes disagreeing with Scott on every point just because it’s his duty as a best friend. They only stop when Mr. Cockburn interrupts them. There’s no headbanging, but the look he gives is almost as deadly as a basilisk's and they both are quick to return to their work.
Reviewing his notes, Stiles can’t help but think that was a bust. He’s alone in the knowledge of what’s coming and no closer to knowing how to talk to Derek about it. Stiles tries to console himself with the fact that at least he’s not being left out of furry matters, but it’s a small comfort.
* * *
Stiles doesn’t sleep any better that night or Thursday. When he’s getting ready for school on Friday morning he catches sight of himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes have grown to the point where he’d be forced to check them if he was on a plane.
Not being able to take much more, he goes to the one person other than him who is possibly hard headed enough to get something out of Derek when he’s not up for volunteering information.
Spotting Erica by her locker, he trudges over and leans against the locker next to hers.
“Hey,” he greets.
“Oh, it’s our resident Batman. So what can I do for you today?” Erica’s smile is predatory, but Stiles is starting to realize it’s just her new favorite look since going all wolfy.
“Yeah, um...” Stiles runs his hand through his hair. It still freaks him out when his fingers actually have something to run through rather than over. “I was wondering if you talked to Derek about this weekend.”
Erica’s face shuts down going from feral to cold. It’s times like this that Stiles remembers how she had to look after herself for so long. It makes Stiles really want to break eye contact and look away, but he knows that’s the last thing that he should do.
“Speak.” It is all she says, likes she’s waiting for him to either dig his hole deeper so she can rip out his throat or make it all okay.
Her reaction gives away the fact that she knows something. He’s almost glad he’s so tired because it doesn’t leave him enough energy to get nervous. “This weekend. Has Derek... mentioned anything to you about it?”
“Look Stiles.” She closes her locker and fixes him with a strong stare before saying in a hushed voice, “Derek didn’t say anything, but I know what it is. Now, I don’t know what you have planned but–”
Stiles jaw drops. “Planned? What? Oh my god, no.” He looks away for a moment so he can run a hand over his face. “What did you think I was going to do, throw him a party or something?”
Erica doesn’t say anything, mouth opening for a moment before she shuts it again.
“Jesus Christ, you did.” He’s utterly confounded. The warning bell sounds and the halls start to empty but he’s too stunned to even worry about whether Coach will give him detention for being late to class.
Erica must have similar thoughts because instead of making an effort to leave, she grimaces. “Well, not a party, but I didn’t know what.” She tries to explain, “It’s not like you to ask someone else about Derek unless it’s for a way to tease him or something.” Her forehead creases in a frown at the end like she’s just realizing what exactly it is that she’s implying.
“God.” Stiles drops to a whisper as if someone would be able to overhear and decode their conversation. “I wouldn’t tease him about that. Holy fuck.”
She’s apologetic now that she’s realized that she’s made a huge mistake, but still it hurts. “I’m sorry.” When she pushes her hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face, Stiles sees that there’s a tremble in her hand. “So, so sorry Stiles. I shouldn’t have said that. The whole thing just gives me a cold sweat.” She wraps her arms around herself, rubbing at them like she’s fighting off a chill.
That makes Stiles more sympathetic. He gets having the heebee jeebees from the things that have become part of their day to day lives. “Come ‘ere,” he says opening his arms, offering Erica a hug.
She looks around the hall for anyone who might be watching them. Seeing that the hallway has completely emptied, she steps into his arms and rests against his chest for a moment, letting him give her a tight squeeze around her waist. Even after everything that’s changed, she’s still uncomfortable showing anything that could be seen as a weakness by anyone not pack.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles against his shirt. He can tell she’s having to resist the wolf nuzzling thing that has become the norm in their little pack. “I didn’t mean it.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s okay, no hard feelings.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful with him? Things are starting to really get better.” This is a side of Erica that doesn’t come out often
“Yeah, you don’t have to worry about that, Catwoman. I’m not going to hurt our fearless leader.”
Erica whispers so low that Stiles almost needs werewolf hearing to catch it. “Sometimes I wish he was fearless.”
He doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he just holds her a bit closer.
* * *
Saturday dawns and Derek still hasn’t said anything and Stiles is pretty sure he’s not going to. They’ve seen each other a bit over the week, but they’ve both been busier than normal, Stiles with studying for his midterms and Derek’s been trying to foster some sort of relationship with a neighboring pack. It’s left them both pressed for time, though they did manage to grab dinner earlier in the week, meeting up at the diner after Stiles finished at the public library. Friday night, the whole pack got together for what Stiles has been insisting on calling Pack Night, but really there hasn’t been much Stiles and Derek alone time.
That’s okay though. They have their almost-often-enough-to-be-standing date on Saturday night and Stiles doesn’t know if he should be dreading it or hopeful that this is when Derek is going to tell him.
When Stiles says he’s headed to Derek’s and probably won’t be back until sometime tomorrow morning, his dad doesn’t even put up the token of protest or argue about curfews and privileges. The banter has become their usual routine ever since the sheriff not only found out that, yes werewolves are real, but also your only child is dating the alpha of this small pack that mostly consists of misfit teenagers.
Instead, the sheriff levels a gaze at Stiles and simply says, “Okay. Be safe and call me if you need anything.”
Stiles just nods, fidgeting with his keys, and says his goodbye, not quite trusting himself to say much more. He climbs into his Jeep, singing along at the top of his lungs to his iPod and trying not to think too much. He makes a single stop at the grocery store before he heads towards the outskirts of town, bopping along to Rollar Coaster before shuffle brings up Call Me Maybe.
He’s working his way through the chorus when he parks the Jeep in front of Derek’s house. He turns off the Jeep and twists in his seat, grabbing the grocery bag that holds two pints of Ben & Jerry’s, a two liter bottle of Dr. Pepper, and a single, large bag of Teriyaki beef jerky out of the back, and slings his backpack over his shoulder as he walks up to the front porch. Spotting the solid door with it’s new coat of paint, Stiles grins and remembers the day that they picked out the paint.
“The door should be red,” Isaac had said while they were stood in front of the display of paint chips at the home improvement store. “I always thought red doors looked happy.” His voice had been wistful like he was off in some memory and Stiles remembers the hesitancy that was in his fingers when he stroked over the sample cards.
“Red is supposed to be a lucky color,” Stiles had offered, picking up the cards and reading the names. “Look Derek, this one has your name on it, Heartthrob,” he teased, swooning backwards, trusting that Scott would catch him.
Derek glowered at Stiles, but his eyes didn’t flash so he figured he was safe. Instead of saying anything, he reached past the section where Stiles had been messing around and grabbed a card adding it to the already chosen, Gauzy White, that was going to go on the interior walls. “This one works,” he grunted out, herding the group away from the samples. Derek had headed to the counter to get the paint mixed while he sent the rest of them off to find brushes, tape, and other odds and ends they were going to need.
Later at the house when Stiles fetched the can so they could paint, he saw the name on the label: Positive Red.
Stiles lets his fingers ghost on the door before letting himself in. “I brought dessert! And jerky!” he shouts, breathing in the combined smell of wood and fresh paint. Shutting the door behind himself, he takes in the interior changes, noting the little ones that have added up over time and the big ones that still sometimes shock him.
The house is different now from the shell it was when he and Scott first stumbled upon it. Even the last few weeks have given it a dramatic turn with the first few completed rooms starting to get their coating of Gauzy White. Others are still open to the studs, needing things like sheetrock, flooring, and lights. But the entire house’s rough framing and roof have been completed as well as the electric and plumbing replaced. It might still be a work in progress, but it’s a far cry from the husk of a building that it used to be and well on on its way to a home.
There’s no immediate response, not that he really expected Derek to shout through the house, so Stiles toes off his shoes and kicks them to the side, making his way down the hallway to the kitchen. He tosses the jerky on the counter, sticks the ice cream in the freezer, and grabs a glass for the soda, his movements practiced. “I was thinking that we could marathon Star Wars until we pass out. How does that sound to you?”
He’s at the pantry checking to see if there’s an unopened jar of maraschino cherries to add to his Cherry Garcia when he feels two strong arms slide around his waist and a chin coming to rest on his shoulder.
“What do you think?” Stiles asks, leaning back.
Derek sounds skeptical. “You’re talking about the originals, right?”
Stiles jerks around in his arms, managing to avoid a jar of pickles on the shelf with his elbow, but not a box of Velveeta. He fumbles the box as it tumbles off the shelf. “I think I should be insulted,” he retorts after wrangling the evasive box and setting it back in its place.
They curl up on the couch after Stiles put in A New Hope and eat their Ben & Jerry’s. Derek’s not quite as enthusiastic about his Coffee Heath Bar Crunch as he normally is, but he does crack a smile and an occasional laugh when Stiles does impressions and repeats his favorite lines, so Stiles counts that as a win. The fact that he doesn’t protest when Stiles takes the bag of jerky away so that he can lay his head on Derek’s thigh instead at the start of The Empire Strikes Back is a very nice bonus, especially when Derek starts to run his nails along Stiles’ scalp.
The familiar sounds of the movie and the feeling of Derek’s fingers carding through his hair relaxes Stiles until he’s a puddle of goo draped over Derek’s lap. He doesn’t even make it to Han getting frozen before the week of little sleep catches up to him and his eyes slide shut despite his best attempts otherwise.
When he wakes up the end credits are rolling and Derek’s hand has shifted to his shoulder, gently shaking him. “C’mon. Let’s go to bed.”
Stiles sits up and stretches, stumbling upstairs without protest. He doesn’t bother to wait for Derek, knowing that he’ll be up as soon as he’s walked around the house and locked up. He doesn’t like to take risks when Stiles is over.
He’s bent over the sink, brushing his teeth when he realizes that it’s midnight and Derek still hasn’t said anything. It sort of bursts the bubble that the night spent lounging around with Derek had made. He’s not even upset for himself. While it hurts that Derek didn’t talk to him about it, Stiles is more concerned with the fact that Derek felt like he couldn’t open up about it.
That thought sticks with him and they’re in bed when he decides to say something.
“You could have told me, you know,” he whispers. They’re laying under the sheets in just their boxers, legs tangled together, but other than that, not touching. Instead, Stiles is fiddling with the sheet between them, picking at invisible lint on the inch of sheet between them while Derek is doing his creepy staring thing that Stiles secretly adores.
“Told you what?” Derek asks, stilling Stiles’ hand with his own and tracing the lines of his fingers.
Stiles shakes his head, looking at their fingers. “Don’t do that.”
He interlaces their hands before raising them up to press a dry kiss against Stiles’ knuckles before he slides their joined hands down next to his heart. “Do what?”
He frees a single finger so he can poke at Derek’s chest. “Play like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Stiles.” It comes out as a sigh.
He raises up on an elbow and looks Derek in the face. “It’s the anniversary of the fire and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell anyone. Not even the pack.” Stiles tries really hard not to sound affronted or entitled, because this isn’t about him. It’s about how Derek Hale still refuses to let people in enough to let them help.
Derek sighs, “Come here.” When Stiles hesitates, he amends, “Come here, please.” He manages to keep his eye rolling to a minimum, choosing instead wrap his arms around Stiles, turning him around so they’re spooned together.
Stiles doesn’t fight him. Sometimes Derek gets like this. Wanting to talk, but still having trouble opening up when face to face with someone. But like this, curled around Stiles and in a room dark but for the moon, he can open up.
“I didn’t say anything because it makes me upset to think about,” he starts, his voice quiet against Stiles’ ear. “And I don’t want that when I’m with you. You...” Derek takes a deep breath. He’s gotten better about talking things through, but he’s still by no means comfortable with it. “You make me better, Stiles. When we’re together, everything just gets easier.”
“When someone’s not trying to kill us, that is,” Stiles deadpans.
That draws a short chuff out of Derek who pulls Stiles even closer against his chest, pressing a kiss against his jaw line. “Yeah. But somehow you make that better, too.”
Stiles tries to turn around to look at Derek so he can get a better read on what he’s thinking. This is different and new, even for their relationship which seems to evolve everyday, and Stiles is left wondering what’s rolling through his mind. He gets stopped before he even gets more than a quarter turned.
“Shh. Stop, let me finish,” Derek’s hands guide him back to where he was before. “Being around you makes me happy. Thinking of them makes me sad all of the time and angry some of the time. It’s not hard to see which I’d prefer.”
Stiles rolls not letting himself be stopped. He’s gobsmacked when he faces Derek. “But they’re your family,” he says. “You’re allowed to feel those things and react that way. Hell, most shrinks would even say you’re supposed to!”
“Yeah, but I’m trying to move on. I love them, I always will. But...” Derek ducks his head shaking it to himself. When he raises it again, he has a sweet smile that would be out of place if it didn’t light up his face perfectly. “I love you, too.”
“Derek. I–” The air shoots out of Stiles lungs. He feels like he woke up in some sort of alternate universe. He’s speechless, Derek is talking about his feelings, and he– “What? Is this a wolf thing?” Realizing what it could be, he hesitates. “What... what about a mate thing?”
He knows about werewolf mates. They’d even talked about it months ago before they started this... thing that they have. Derek wasn’t very forthcoming with any information, saying that Stiles deserved time to experience things on his own before he was swayed one way or the other by lore or labels. All he would say was that they existed and they were important. He wouldn’t say if Stiles was his or not, but he had at least promised that if Stiles was his mate, he wouldn’t be doing himself any harm by not talking about it until later.
They still debated what the definition of ‘later’ was. Derek insists it is sometime after Stiles’ graduation when he’s had a chance to get out in the real world, while Stiles likes to insist they’ve reached ‘later’ many times already. The most recent of which was a few weeks ago when they hit six months of no longer fighting the pull between them.
“Only a little bit of a wolf thing, and I’m not answering about mates,” he says, reaching to gently trace at Stiles lips with a single fingertip. “I’ve known how I’ve felt for a while. Just didn’t want to scare you off.”
Stiles swears that his hearts starts skipping beats, stuttering out some sort of weird pattern against his ribs. “Say it again.”
“I didn’t want to scare you off?” Derek repeats with a quirk of his lips.
It’s teasing quirk. Derek is teasing. His face is lit from within, a smile that Stiles has never seen before is emerging bit by bit, light and nearly carefree. It’s only like this, with the stress slowly melting away, that Stiles realizes exactly how much tension Derek carries in his face. It’s as if some sort of weight has been lifted off of his shoulders by three words.
Three words that someone would very much like to hear repeated.
Giving no quarter, Stiles starts poking at Derek randomly with his fingers. “No you dickwad, that– that thing! Say it again,” he demands, not letting up with his prodding.
Stiles’ jabs do nothing to him, but Derek pretends to squirm anyway as if he’s being tickled before catching Stiles hands in a gentle clasp and holding them against his chest. “I love you, Stiles.”
He’s trying to keep his face from splitting into an embarrassingly wide grin at the words, but utterly fails, losing all semblance of composure. So he resorts to sass instead, “I feel like I need to threaten you with wolfsbane and ask you where the real Derek Hale is, but I really just want to hear you say that a million more times.”
“I love you,” he says simply. Gently he takes his hands and frames Stiles’ face, thumbing his cheeks and the bruises under his eyes before laying a sweet kiss on his lips. “I.” Kiss. “Love.” Kiss. “You.”
Stiles beams as Derek dots his face with kisses. “I was right. You’re a changeling,” he accuses as Derek starts running his lips down his jaw. “Where is my Derek?”
“Hmmm,” Derek growls, nuzzling against his skin, taking a deep breath. “I like that.” His voice has dropped into that sexy rumble of his that Stiles tries really hard to ignore for fear of his brain short circuiting.
Stiles refuses to be distracted. “What? Being a changeling?” There’s another press of lips. This time against his neck with hint of teeth before Derek uses his tongue to sooth the nonexistent sting.
“No, you calling me yours.” This time there is more than just a hint of teeth and Stiles eyes flutter closed.
“Have your teeth rotted out from all that sugar you’re saying?” he, asks, sliding his hands from Derek’s chest, around his back and clutching at the back of his shoulders hoping that they will provide some sort of anchor.
“Shut up, Stiles.”
That makes him laugh. “Well, that’s at least familiar. Maybe you should add a growl and throw me up against a wall or two. Then your act would be more believable.” He’s having fun with this banter, but his brain is buzzing, shorting out and putting words into some sort of coherent shape is getting harder and harder.
“I haven’t thrown you up against a wall in months.” There’s a long wet lick to his collarbone that’s followed by something that is definitely not a little, light nip. Werewolf? Try vampire.
“Jesus,” Stiles hisses out between his teeth, as he throws his head back against the pillow. Derek knows exactly what that does to him. He takes a couple deep breaths centering himself before he finally gets out, “That is a big fat lie.”
“Fine,” Derek returns to light nips at his skin, now moving down to his chest, down the line of his sternum. “I haven’t thrown you up against a wall in months when it hasn’t involved fucking you or saving your ass.”
“That’s more truthful.” Those were good times. Well, the ones that involved sex. Though the lifesaving normally turned into life-affirming sexy times, so Stiles can’t really complain. “I like saying it too, you know.”
“Hmmm?” he seems very distracted by the skin right above Stiles’ belly button. It’s okay as Stiles is equally distracted by the way that Derek is managing to pull his boxers off while Stiles is being turned into a noodle by his lips.
“Calling you mine.” Stiles flexes his hands, testing the strong shoulders beneath them before shifting a hand to trail his nails through the short hair at Derek’s nape. “My boyfriend. My Derek.” He get’s an impish grin on his face. “My sweet and sourwolf.”
“Mhmm.”
Stiles pouts. He was expecting at least a groan, if not a threat of bodily harm. “Oh god. No response to that?” he teases. “I completely lost you, didn’t I? You went from syrupy sweet to nonverbal in like a minute. That has to be a record. Have you given yourself a sugar coma?”
“Stiles?” Derek doesn’t raise his head, too busy tracing the ridge of Stiles’ hipbone with his tongue.
The effort that Stiles is putting into not thinking about where Derek’s mouth is and where he wants it is probably enough to power California for an entire day. “Oh good, two syllables. Not completely nonverbal then.” Not thinking about Derek’s mouth. Nope. Not even a little bit.
Derek finally prys his lips away from Stiles hip. He lifts his head and stares at Stiles’ face for a second. “Shut up.”
Pushing up onto his elbows to look down at Derek, he mimes one of his famous eyebrow raises and challenges, “Make me.”
So Derek does.
He lowers his head, finally putting his mouth on Stiles’ dick. He licks around the head before taking it into his mouth, his hands on Stiles’ hips, pinning them down.
The only reason Stiles doesn’t let out a shout of victory is because he’s too busy trying to not swallow his tongue. The hot, wet heat of Derek’s mouth short circuits his brain, rendering him dumbstruck. He still sometimes has trouble believing this is a thing that happens.
Derek pulls off Stiles’ dick, tonguing at his slit. “Are you going to be quiet now?”
Stiles nods frantically.
“Good,” he says before swallowing his dick to the base. He stays down for a moment, then two, throat fluttering around the head before he pulls off for a breath and repeats.
Stiles doesn’t know what to do with all of this sensation after so much teasing. He fists his hands in Derek’s hair. He’s not sure if he wants to keep Derek’s mouth on him forever or pull him off because it’s too much.
He’s saved from that dilemma by Derek pulling back to get a hand around the shaft of his dick, coordinating the way that his hand and mouth work Stiles.
Derek slowly speeds up. It’s starts to get messy, spit slicking the way, wet noises covering Stiles’ breathless whimpers as he finds himself edging embarrassingly close to coming. Derek takes a moment to swirl his tongue around the head, licking up the precome there. Stiles can’t help but think that Derek knowing how to press all of his buttons is going to be the death of him.
He can feel Derek rolling his hips against the bed, this slow thrust a counterpoint to his hand on Stiles. The knowledge that this is turning Derek on as much as it is him, that he wants it just as badly is what pushes Stiles over the edge.
He comes with a shudder, fists clenched. Derek swallows before cleaning him with little licks, smiling up at Stiles when he’s done. That has Stiles pulling at Derek, guiding him up so that he can kiss him. He licks the taste of himself out of Derek’s mouth, twining his tongue with Derek’s, fisting his hand in the short hair at the back of his head.
Not stopping, he keeps kissing Derek, inching one of his hands down Derek’s chest to his belly before edging his hand underneath the waistband of his underwear. He wraps his hand around his dick, jerking him. “Here, let me,” he whispers with a twist of his wrist when he reaches the head.
At his touch Derek groans, whispering Stiles’ name into his mouth before catching his lip between sharp teeth. It makes Stiles whimper, pressing his groin against Derek’s hip. If he wasn’t jello from just coming, he’d be tempted to see if he could get off just like this, rubbing against the smooth skin left exposed by Derek’s low slung boxers.
It’s not long until Derek comes. He breaks the kiss to press his face against Stiles’ neck as he does, Stiles’ hand working him until his pants become little whimpers when it becomes too much. Derek quiets once the hand on his dick stills, his body giving little involuntary shakes as he comes down.
They catch their breath, pressed together from head to toes. After a minute, Derek kicks off his boxers, using them to clean both of them up before throwing them across the room towards the hamper.
They get settled in again, pulling up the covers that had been kicked down. Stiles doesn’t wait for an invitation, burrowing into Derek’s side and smiling when Derek just pulls him further under his arm and kisses his temple. “I love you.”
“I know,” Stiles replies with a sleepy, happy smile.
They’re both quiet for awhile, Stiles listening to the steady beat of Derek’s heart beneath his cheek, Derek running his fingers through his hair, pulling him closer and closer to sleep.
Before his eyes slide completely closed he says in a low voice, “I love you, too. Just in case you didn’t realize that.”
Derek squeezes him and lays a kiss against his temple. “I know.”
“Okay, good.” Stiles hides his smile against Derek’s chest. “Just thought I’d make sure.”
That night is the best night of sleep he’s had in a week.
* * *