Chapter Text
Derek was lost.
He had only meant to take a short walk around his new neighborhood, just to get a feel for the place. But the narrow streets had a way of bending on themselves, and now he was standing in an unfamiliar alley with no clue how to get back. Half the streetlights were dead, leaving the path swallowed by uneven pools of shadow.
He turned a slow circle, scanning the cracked brick walls and dented trash bins for something familiar. Nothing. Just the quiet hum of a distant main road, too far away to guide him.
“Where the heck am I?” Derek muttered, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration.
He let out a sharp breath. Deciding to wander at night, right after moving into a new apartment, was definitely one of his less brilliant ideas. His phone had died twenty minutes ago, and his smartwatch was still on the charger at home. All he could do now was keep walking and hope the next turn led him somewhere recognizable.
After a few minutes, he noticed someone up ahead — a guy, maybe around his own age, walking briskly down the sidewalk. The man carried a plastic grocery bag in one hand and a canvas shoulder bag on the other. Relief flickered through Derek’s chest. Finally, a person. Someone who might know the way.
“Thank God,” Derek murmured under his breath. He quickened his pace.
“Excuse me!” he called out once he was close enough. “Do you know how I can get back to the main street?”
The man kept walking, not even turning his head.
Derek frowned. Maybe he hadn’t heard. He raised his voice. “Hey, excuse me!”
Still nothing. The guy didn’t even slow down.
“You’re kidding me,” Derek muttered, irritation spiking. He jogged a few steps and reached out. “Hey! You’re making this embarrassing for me!”
Before he could think better of it, Derek’s hand landed on the man’s shoulder.
The reaction was immediate. The man flinched violently and spun around, his grocery bag slipping from his grip. Derek caught a flash of wide eyes and a sharp intake of breath. The sound that came out of the man’s mouth was half gasp, half startled syllable.
Derek froze.
Up close, the guy looked younger than he’d first thought. His skin was pale under the weak streetlight, his hair a mess of soft brown that caught the glow just enough to show copper undertones. And there was a scar — a faint, jagged line cutting down from his left temple to his cheek. It wasn’t fresh, but it stood out, pale against the rest of his face. His eyes, though, were the kind that drew attention. Bright, nervous, but full of something sharp behind the surprise.
“Uh,” Derek said, still holding his shoulder, “sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
The man jerked back, twisting out of Derek’s loose grip before he could finish. Then, without a word, he bolted down the sidewalk, his footsteps quick and uneven.
Derek blinked, momentarily frozen, his hand still hanging in the air where the guy had been. “He… ran away?” he muttered in disbelief.
He watched as the figure disappeared into the darkness, the faint sound of plastic rustling fading behind him.
“Wait!” Derek called after him. “I’m still lost!”
Silence.
Derek stood there for a long moment, then sighed. “Great. Scare the only person who could’ve helped you.”
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, scowling at the cracked pavement as he turned back the way he came. The night seemed quieter now, heavier. Somewhere ahead, a car passed, and the headlights briefly illuminated the corner where the man had disappeared. Derek caught himself staring at the spot before shaking his head.
Weird encounter. Weird guy.
Still… there was something about him Derek couldn’t quite shake.
Stiles was used to cutting through dark alleys. The narrow backstreets behind the apartment buildings were empty most nights, and that was exactly how he liked them. They were shortcuts few people bothered with, especially after sundown, when the lamps flickered and the pavement turned slick from the evening air. For Stiles, the emptiness was a kind of comfort. No crowds, no strangers brushing too close, no accidental collisions that left him guessing what someone had just said in apology or irritation.
He preferred the stillness of these alleys, where the only movement came from the shadows cast by dim lights and swaying branches. It wasn’t about being brave or reckless; it was about control. Here, he didn’t have to watch people’s lips, didn’t have to worry about missing words or feeling the sting of being left out of another conversation. Silence was everywhere, not just his, and that made it easier to breathe.
Over time, the route had become habit. He could trace every turn in his head, every stretch of wall marked by faded graffiti or peeling posters. The routine grounded him, gave him a small illusion of normalcy. It was one of the few things that still felt steady when so much of his life had gone off balance.
He carried a small grocery bag under one arm, the plastic handles digging faintly into his fingers, and his worn shoulder bag pressed close against his side. The bag was heavy with things he probably didn’t need but bought anyway because it gave him a reason to go out, a reason to walk. His thoughts drifted, not really on his destination, just on the quiet rhythm of his steps echoing softly in the night.
Then a heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
He flinched.
The weight of that touch jolted straight through him, and when he turned, his breath caught in his throat. A tall man stood behind him, broad-shouldered and glaring, his expression sharp enough to cut through the shadows. His mouth was moving, but Stiles heard nothing. All he could see was a stranger’s face twisted in what looked like anger, framed by the dim light that barely reached them.
Every nerve in his body screamed at him to move.
He tore himself free and ran.
The plastic bag swung wildly against his leg, and something fell out, bouncing and rolling away, but he didn’t stop. He sprinted down the narrow street, lungs burning, heart pounding against his ribs as if it wanted out. The world around him felt muffled and distant, not because of the night but because of the silence that wrapped everything in thick, heavy cotton.
He ran until the dark walls finally gave way to the open street.
By the time he reached a functioning streetlight, his steps faltered. His breath came in short bursts, his chest aching with every inhale. He slowed, clutching his side, sweat cooling on his skin under the pale glow.
What’s going on? What’s with that guy? The thought came in a jumble, half panic, half disbelief. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest as if that could steady his heartbeat.
He had such a scary expression on his face.
He turned, glancing behind him. The alley stretched out, empty and still, nothing but shadow and silence. No sign of the man.
Did I… do something wrong?
His steps slowed until he stopped completely at the intersection. The hum of the city lights trembled faintly through his feet, the only vibration he could still sense. A couple passed by on the opposite side of the street, laughing softly to each other. Their mouths moved, their eyes crinkled, but to him it was like watching a scene in a silent film, stripped of sound and warmth.
He sighed.
A year. It had been a year since the accident. A year since the world had gone quiet.
His father still looked at him like he was fragile glass. His coworkers avoided giving him real work, their pity disguised as patience. The friends who used to fill his days with noise and life had stopped calling. One by one, they had drifted away until all that was left was the silence.
Stiles pressed his forehead briefly against the cool metal of the streetlight.
Even though he was alive, his world had died.
The night was clear and cool, and Derek’s mood was unusually light. He had just come back from the small grocery store on the corner, a paper bag tucked under one arm and his favorite song humming quietly in his throat. The air smelled faintly of wet grass and city dust.
“Tonight is surprisingly breezy,” he said to himself, smiling as he walked down the dimly lit street. Moving into this neighborhood had felt right so far. It was peaceful, and for once he felt content.
He slowed when he passed a small playground. The lamps around it cast a warm circle of light over the benches and the rusted swing set. That was when he noticed someone sitting alone near the edge of the park, a familiar figure hunched over a notebook. The back of the man’s head looked familiar, the same unruly brown hair, the same way he sat with his shoulders drawn slightly in, as if protecting himself from the world.
Derek frowned and took a few steps closer. “Isn't that… the guy from last night?”
He moved quietly, stopping a short distance behind the bench. The man didn’t turn, didn’t even flinch at the sound of Derek’s footsteps on the gravel. His attention was fixed on the notebook in his hands, a pen moving in small, steady strokes.
“As I thought… he doesn’t even notice that I’m here,” Derek thought, tilting his head. He clapped his hands together once, loud enough to get anyone’s attention. No reaction.
Derek’s eyes softened with understanding. “I get it,” he murmured under his breath.
He stepped closer and stood beside the bench. The sudden movement startled the man, who looked up in alarm, his whole body tensing. The same wide eyes met Derek’s as last night, the same startled expression that somehow managed to look both fierce and scared.
Derek held up his hands, trying to show he meant no harm. Then he reached for the notebook and pen, gently pulling them from the man’s grasp. The man’s shoulders tightened, but he didn’t resist. Derek quickly scribbled down a few words and turned the page so he could read.
I’m sorry for scaring you last time. My name is Derek Hale.
The man blinked, his expression softening a little. He took the notebook back and wrote something below the line.
Mine’s Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.
Derek smiled. “Nice to meet you,” he said out loud, knowing Stiles probably couldn’t hear but saying it anyway. Stiles’s lips twitched, almost like he understood. Then his pen moved again.
What did you want last night?
Derek reached for the notebook again. “Hand me that,” he muttered, more to himself than to Stiles. He wrote quickly.
Last night was a misunderstanding. I was lost. I wanted to ask for directions.
Stiles nodded once, slowly, as if weighing the truth of it. His eyes lowered to the notebook.
Derek scribbled some more on the book.
Do you know sign language, Stiles?
Stiles took the book and pen from Derek and wrote a reply, his handwriting a little uneven.
I haven’t memorized everything yet.
Derek studied him for a moment. There was something in the way Stiles avoided his eyes, staring at the ground instead, that tugged at his chest. He wrote again, his brow furrowing.
Why don’t you use a cane? People would understand better that you can’t hear them.
He slid the notebook back toward Stiles, expecting maybe confusion or a thoughtful pause. Instead, Stiles’s entire expression shifted. He snatched the notebook, scribbled hard enough that the pen nearly tore the page, and shoved it back at Derek’s chest.
I’m not a cripple!
Derek blinked, caught off guard. He looked up at Stiles, whose breathing had quickened. The younger man’s jaw was tight, his hands trembling faintly as if holding back more than just anger.
“That’s not what I meant,” Derek said softly, though he knew Stiles couldn’t hear it. He flipped to the next page and started writing quickly.
I didn’t say you’re a cripple. Why are you suddenly mad?
Stiles read the note and let out a small, humorless laugh. It wasn’t amusement; it was disbelief. He snatched the notebook again, his pen cutting sharp lines into the paper.
When he shoved the notebook back again, Derek could see the faint indentation where the pen had nearly torn through.
I don’t need a cane! Even though I can’t hear very well, it’s not a handicap to me!
Derek stared at the note, then at Stiles, whose lips were pressed in a tight pout that would have been funny if the hurt in his eyes wasn’t so obvious.
Derek exhaled and turned to a fresh page, forcing himself to slow down, to think before writing.
Then why are you alone in the park so late at night?
Stiles read it, his shoulders stiffening. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he lowered his eyes to the notebook again and began to write, slower this time.
I don’t like walking back when it’s still bright outside. I’m waiting until there are fewer people out here.
Derek watched him as he wrote. There was no anger in the movement now, only quiet exhaustion. The edges of Stiles’s irritation had faded, leaving something fragile behind.
When Stiles handed the notebook back, Derek didn’t write anything right away. He just looked at him, really looked this time. The faint shadows under his eyes, the way he kept his body drawn in as if protecting himself from the world.
For a man who insisted he wasn’t broken, he looked like someone trying very hard not to fall apart.
If you didn’t think of it as a handicap, you’d be fine walking out during the day, wouldn’t you?
This time Stiles hesitated before writing back. His shoulders slumped slightly.
I hate crowds. I don’t like how people… look at me.
Look? How do they look at you?
Derek asked on the next line.
Like they pity me. Or like they’re looking at something broken. Like I’m something they can’t understand.
Stiles' handwriting is smaller now. Derek stared at the words for a long time before answering.
Maybe that’s because you already see yourself that way. You think of yourself as a victim. What if you’re just blaming your disability on other people?
He paused, then added another line.
I think it takes just as much effort for a healthy person and a deaf person to live their lives. Maybe the one who’s really discriminating against you… is you.
He handed the notebook back carefully.
Stiles’s hands trembled slightly as he read. His mouth parted as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. After a moment, he closed the notebook, stood up, and walked away without looking back.
Derek watched Stiles walk away, his expression softening into something that felt a lot like guilt. “Hey,” he called quietly, even though he knew it was pointless. The sound disappeared into the still night, swallowed by the rustle of leaves overhead.
He sighed and sank onto the bench.
“I was just trying to talk,” he muttered under his breath. “Guess I pushed too hard.”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the tension sitting heavy in his chest. “Nice job, Derek. First decent conversation you’ve had in months, and you manage to piss the guy off.”
A quiet, humorless laugh slipped out of him. He leaned back against the bench and looked toward the path Stiles had taken, the space now empty except for the faint sway of the playground lights. The night felt heavier without him there.
He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the lingering sting of guilt. He hadn’t meant to upset Stiles; he’d just opened his mouth and let the wrong words tumble out. It always seemed to happen that way when he cared, even a little.
Still, he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. “He’s just so damn cute,” Derek muttered to himself, shaking his head. Derek couldn't help but tease the guy and went overboard.
The words hung in the air, quiet and almost fond. For a long moment, Derek just sat there, staring into the empty stretch of park, wondering why someone he barely knew had already gotten under his skin.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Genuine thanks to the three people who read the first chapter. I’ll admit the silence had me wondering whether the story missed its mark, but I’m hoping it still finds the readers it’s meant for. Chapter two is here, and hopefully this chapter will vibe with a few more folks. Happy reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Derek had returned to the park every night since that awkward encounter. He told himself it was just habit, that he liked the quiet and the view of the stars from the worn wooden bench. But each time he came, he found his gaze drawn to the path where Stiles had stormed off, half expecting to see him again.
He never did.
Still, Derek came anyway. Sometimes he brought a book, sometimes just a cup of coffee that went cold as he sat there too long. The breeze carried the sound of rustling leaves and the distant creak of the playground swings. It was peaceful, but it was also lonely.
Several days later, he found himself there again, sitting in the same spot, the streetlights humming softly above. He leaned back and stared at the dark stretch of sky, watching a few scattered stars blink into view.
“I guess there’s really no reason for him to come back,” Derek muttered, exhaling through his nose. “I’m sure he thinks I’m a jerk now.”
His voice sounded small in the open space. He tipped his head back, rubbing at the back of his neck. He had meant well that night, but his words had landed like stones. He could still see the flash of hurt in Stiles’s eyes.
He was just about to leave when he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path.
Derek turned instinctively, his heart giving a small, hopeful jolt. A figure was approaching from the direction of the street, head bowed, one hand shoved into his pocket.
It was him.
Stiles moved slowly, his gaze fixed on the ground. The yellow glow of the nearest lamppost revealed the familiar tousled hair, the pale line of his jaw, the faint furrow between his brows. He wore a loose T-shirt beneath an unbuttoned plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His shorts brushed his knees, and Derek could see he's holding a long stick in his hand.
Derek’s breath caught for a moment. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed seeing him until now.
“Stiles,” he murmured, almost too quietly for the word to matter, but it slipped out anyway.
Then he noticed the notebook and pen hanging from Stiles’s neck on a short strap, resting against his chest like a charm. The sight made something in Derek’s chest unclench.
He smiled, warmth spreading through him before he could stop it. How cute, he thought, feeling a little ridiculous for the way the corners of his mouth refused to lower.
And then his eyes flicked to the cane in Stiles’s hand. It was simple and black, lightweight, but unmistakable. Derek blinked in surprise.
“Oh? He’s carrying one now,” he whispered to himself, a trace of awe and happiness threading his voice. “So he took my advice after all.”
He felt his grin widen, his heart giving an unsteady little skip. He probably had no right to feel this pleased, but he did.
Stiles slowed as he neared the bench, only then seeming to realize that someone else was already there. His head lifted, eyes catching the light. Their gazes met.
For a moment, neither moved. The sounds of the night faded into the background, leaving only the thud of Derek’s heartbeat and the faint squeak of Stiles’s shoes against the gravel.
Then Stiles gave a small, cautious smile.
And just like that, the park didn’t feel so empty anymore.
Derek lifted a hand in greeting as soon as their eyes met, remembering that a wave would speak louder than words for Stiles. Stiles hesitated for a moment before returning the gesture, his fingers curling into a small, uncertain wave.
The night air carried a gentle chill, brushing against Derek’s face and teasing through his hair. The scent of damp leaves and cool pavement filled the space between them. Stiles stepped closer, the light from the streetlamp spilling over him, and Derek could not help noticing again how underdressed he was. Shorts and a thin shirt in this weather. He looked like he had walked straight out of summer and into autumn without realizing it.
“Are you cold?” Derek asked before remembering the uselessness of his voice. He caught himself and instead motioned toward the street with a small tilt of his head, miming a shiver, then pointing in the direction of his building.
Stiles frowned, his brows knitting as he tried to decipher Derek’s vague gestures. Derek mimed a shiver again, pointing vaguely down the street, but Stiles only tilted his head, confusion written all over his face.
Derek sighed softly, half-laughing at himself. Subtlety was clearly not working. Before he could overthink it, he reached for the small notebook hanging around Stiles’s neck. His fingers brushed the edge of the leather cord as he lifted it, careful not to pull too hard. Stiles froze, his breath catching, and color bloomed faintly across his cheeks.
For a moment, Derek forgot what he was doing. The sight was disarming—Stiles looking up at him with wide eyes, his lips parting in surprise, his lashes casting soft shadows under the streetlight. Derek’s pulse stumbled, and he had to drag his focus back to the notebook before he did something truly stupid.
He clicked the pen and scribbled quickly on the page:
It’s chilly out here. Want to hang around at my place for a bit?
When he turned the notebook around, Stiles read it silently. His blush deepened, and for a few seconds, Derek was sure he was about to refuse. Then Stiles’s mouth curved into a shy, crooked smile, the kind that hit Derek square in the chest.
He nodded once, small but certain.
Derek felt something loosen inside him—a quiet relief, maybe, or something far more dangerous. He smiled back, warm and unguarded. “Okay,” he said softly, even though Stiles could not hear. Then he gestured for him to follow.
Together, they walked through the quiet streets toward Derek’s apartment. The city had softened for the night, leaving only the low hum of distant traffic and the echo of their steps. Occasionally, Stiles’s cane tapped lightly against the pavement, steady and rhythmic. Derek found the sound strangely comforting.
When they reached the building, Derek held the door open for him, feeling unexpectedly nervous. He had not planned this. It had just felt wrong to let Stiles wander the chilly streets alone again. But now, standing outside his door, he wondered if he was about to make a fool of himself.
He unlocked the door and pushed it open, immediately regretting his impulsiveness. The loft looked like a storm had passed through. Books were scattered across the floor and the coffee table, a half-eaten sandwich sat abandoned on the counter, and a pile of laundry lurked on the couch.
“Great,” Derek muttered under his breath.
He turned back to Stiles, who stood just inside the doorway, taking it all in. Derek felt heat rise to his face.
“I’m sorry my apartment is such a mess,” he said quickly, stooping to gather the books from the floor. He stacked them on the table with more force than necessary, trying to look busy.
Then the obvious hit him. He froze mid-motion, looking over his shoulder at Stiles.
“Wait,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “You can’t even hear me.”
Stiles’s expression softened, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. He reached for the notebook hanging from his neck and flipped to a clean page, writing something quickly before holding it out to Derek.
“I can see the mess. You don’t have to apologize.”
Derek huffed out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right,” he said instinctively, even though Stiles could not hear. He smiled anyway, a little sheepishly, and pointed toward the couch to invite him to sit.
Stiles obeyed, setting his cane carefully against the armrest. Derek watched him for a moment, noticing again the details he had missed before. The way Stiles’s fingers moved deftly across the page, the slight furrow in his brow when he was focused, the quiet confidence beneath his awkwardness.
It had been a mistake to bring him here, Derek thought. His place was a mess, and his social skills were worse. But watching Stiles sit there, framed by the warm glow of the lamp and the faint smile tugging at his mouth, Derek could not quite convince himself that it was a mistake after all.
Meanwhile, Stiles had a lot to take in. As soon as he stepped inside, Stiles’s eyes darted everywhere, wide with surprise. Derek’s loft was nothing like he had expected. The place was open and spacious, but lived in, with high ceilings and wide windows that let the city lights spill across the floor. A worn leather couch sat in the center, surrounded by small stacks of books, a coffee mug that had long gone cold, and a few scattered notebooks. The faint scent of paper and coffee hung in the air, blending with something distinctly Derek — warm, clean, and grounding.
What caught Stiles’s attention most were the books. There were so many of them. They filled every available space: the shelves that lined the far wall, the low table near the couch, even the floor by the window. Stiles moved slowly through the room, his cane tapping softly against the polished wood. He looked almost reverent as he turned in a slow circle, taking it all in.
By the time Derek came in behind him, juggling a precarious stack of books in his arms, Stiles had already pulled the notebook from around his neck. He scribbled quickly, then turned the page toward Derek.
You have so many books!
Derek laughed under his breath as he set the stack down on the nearest table. “Hmm? Yeah, I guess I do,” he said, even though Stiles could not hear him. He grabbed the pen and wrote a quick reply beneath Stiles’s message.
Well, it’s part of my job. They're my reference when writing novels.
Stiles blinked, then his eyebrows shot up. His expression shifted from curiosity to delight as he wrote back with rapid, eager strokes.
You’re a novelist? That’s amazing!!!
Derek read the words and looked up just in time to see Stiles’s grin — bright and unguarded, the kind that seemed to light up the room. His chest gave a small, involuntary twist.
He smiled a little shyly and wrote back.
Not at all. I just write a little.
Stiles, clearly unconvinced, leaned in and scribbled another question.
What do you write? Horror? Romance? Mystery?
Derek rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like the air had grown warmer. He reached for the notebook and wrote.
A bit of everything.
That part, at least, was not a lie. He did write many things — but only as subgenres. The truth was much less noble. He was a bestselling author of erotic fiction, and nearly every story he had ever published could make a priest blush. Watching Stiles’s face, wide-eyed and full of admiration, made Derek’s stomach flip with guilt.
“Uh,” Derek muttered to himself as Stiles continued looking around. “He’d probably die if he ever actually read one.”
But then Stiles turned back toward him, pointing to the nearest shelf with a hopeful look. He made a small gesture — a simple question in sign language, one Derek had learned from a basic ASL YouTube video days ago.
Can I?
Derek nodded, smiling despite himself. “Go ahead,” he said automatically, then caught himself and gestured for Stiles to read instead.
He quickly scribbled it down.
Go ahead. Read as many as you want.
Stiles’s face brightened. He turned to the shelves and began scanning the spines with eager concentration, his fingers grazing lightly over the covers. Derek watched him pick out a few titles, flipping one open with a soft rustle of paper.
It was such an ordinary sight — someone simply browsing books — but there was something about the way Stiles did it that made Derek’s chest ache. The quiet focus, the small smile when he found something interesting, the faint furrow of his brows when he read the blurbs.
And all Derek could think was how disastrously mortifying it would be if Stiles happened to pick one of those books.
He stood frozen behind him, praying that the one in Stiles’s hands was one of the few mystery pieces he’d written, not The Sculptor’s Desire or Velvet and Claws.
Then he remembered that he'd separate his works from his extensive collection, safe in a locked safe in his office.
It started gradually.
After that night in the park, Stiles began stopping by Derek’s loft more often. At first, it was once or twice a week, an occasional visit that always seemed to catch Derek off guard. But soon, it became almost daily, as if it were simply part of both their routines.
Derek did not mind. In fact, he found himself spending more time at home than he ever had before.
He used to fill his evenings with long walks or late hours at the library, restless energy pushing him to move. But now, he caught himself glancing at the clock around seven, listening for the faint tap of Stiles’s cane against the hallway floor outside his door. It was ridiculous, he told himself, how his heart seemed to pick up every time he heard that sound.
In the first two weeks, Stiles usually arrived around eight. He would knock lightly, wait for Derek to open the door, and step inside with that small, polite smile of his, notebook already in hand. But by the third week, the rhythm had changed. Stiles started showing up earlier, sometimes as early as six.
When Derek asked about it through the notebook, Stiles had written,
My shift ends at five. If I come straight here, I get to read more before it gets too late.
Derek had smiled when he read it, though he tried to hide it. Later, it occurred to him that Stiles might also be avoiding the evening rush, the crowds of people leaving work, the noise and chaos of a city that no longer sounded the same to him. It made sense. Stiles had once written that he hated crowds because of how people looked at him. Coming here early, to a quiet loft filled with books and tea, probably felt safer.
And maybe that was part of why Derek liked having him around so much.
He was surprised, though, by how talkative Stiles turned out to be. Not in the loud, exhausting way most people were, but in a way that made him seem genuinely interested in everything. His notebook was constantly open, and whenever something caught his attention, he would scribble a question and push it across the table toward Derek.
What is your favorite book?
Why do you drink so much coffee?
Do you ever get tired of writing about people falling in love?
Derek had laughed at that last one, shaking his head as he wrote:
I get tired of writing about them doing other things first.
Stiles had read it, blinked once, and then blushed to the tips of his ears before furiously scribbling
You mean… O.O
Derek took the note and read the wide-eyed doodle of an embarrassed emoji. Derek had choked on his drink and quickly turned the page, pretending to focus on something else.
Usually, Derek disliked nosy people. He valued his privacy, his silence, and his space. But when Stiles leaned forward with that curious tilt of his head, or when his fingers moved quickly across the page because he was too eager to get the next question down, Derek found himself thinking that maybe curiosity could be… cute. Especially when it came with a shy smile and a soft laugh that never reached his ears but glowed in Stiles’s eyes.
He learned other small things too. That Stiles worked at a manufacturing plant, assembling electronic parts with steady hands and sharp focus. That he had a soft spot for old movies with subtitles, even if he sometimes complained that the captions never kept up with the actors. And that he liked coffee but avoided drinking it in the evenings because it made him jittery, so he usually drinks tea in the evening.
The next time Derek went grocery shopping, he stood in front of the tea section for far too long, frowning at the shelves like they held a puzzle he could not solve. He did not know what kind Stiles liked, so he ended up buying an assortment: chamomile, peppermint, black, green, something called “sleepy blend.” He told himself it was just polite to have options for a guest. But when he came home and arranged them neatly beside his coffee tins, he realized he was smiling again.
They started sharing evening tea while Derek worked. Stiles would curl up on the couch, legs tucked under him, a book open in his lap, while Derek typed quietly at the table. The soft clinking of mugs and the sound of turning pages filled the loft with a sense of calm that Derek had not felt in years. He told himself the tea helped him sleep better at night, but deep down, he knew that was not really it.
It was Stiles.
Somewhere along the way, Derek had abandoned his small office altogether. His desk sat unused, collecting dust, while his laptop now lived on the coffee table. He preferred writing in the living room, where he could glance up from the screen and see Stiles sitting under the warm glow of the lamp, completely absorbed in whatever book he had chosen that day.
Sometimes Stiles would look up and catch him staring. He would tilt his head questioningly, a faint smile tugging at his lips, and Derek would quickly pretend to stretch or refill his tea. But Stiles always knew.
It became their quiet routine: shared silence, exchanged glances, pages turning, the faint steam rising from their cups. Derek’s words came easier with Stiles there, as if his presence filled the spaces that had once felt too empty.
He told himself it was just companionship, just the comfort of having someone nearby who understood silence.
But every time Stiles smiled at him, every time his fingers brushed Derek’s when he passed the notebook, Derek’s chest tightened just a little more.
He was not sure what it meant yet, but he knew this much — he did not want it to end.
Notes:
If you enjoyed this chapter even a tiny bit, please consider leaving a kudos. And if you have thoughts, big or small, I’d love to hear them through comments, as I continue shaping this fic.
Feed a writer. Save a life. (Okay, maybe not literally, but my dopamine would appreciate it.)
Chapter 3
Notes:
Hi everyone. I genuinely want to thank you guys again for giving this story a chance. If you’re here now, whether you’ve been reading since the start or just found your way in, I’m grateful. I hope this chapter gives you something warm, something tender, or simply something worth your time. Your support truly keeps the story alive.
Onward, and thank you for reading.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
To help keep the different forms of communication clear in this story, I’m using the following formatting:
Formatting Guide
"Regular spoken dialogue"
Dialogue conveyed through sign language
Anything written (notebooks, phone messages, typed notes, etc.)
I hope this makes the transitions between speech, writing, and signing easier to follow as you read.
Derek adjusted the collar of his shirt before sitting back at his desk, the faint hum of his laptop the only sound in the loft. The air smelled faintly of paper and black coffee, the kind of scent that clung to him after long hours spent revising the same paragraph until it finally felt right. His desk was a controlled chaos of open notebooks, highlighted printouts, and a half-finished mug of tea.
He had barely started typing when the front door opened and Isaac’s familiar voice drifted into the apartment.
“Derek! You home?”
Derek looked up from the screen. “In here,” he called back, though he knew Isaac was already wandering in without waiting for an answer.
“The manuscript’s on the coffee table,” Derek added. “Revised. Twice.”
“’Kay. Lemme just check it real quick,” Isaac said, crouching beside the coffee table and flipping open the thick stack of papers with a familiar rustle.
Derek hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t look up again. His fingers were already back on the keyboard, tapping steadily. The words flowed faster now, half-formed sentences tumbling out as he tried to capture the warmth in his mind before it vanished. The memory of Stiles sitting cross-legged on his couch only a few nights ago kept creeping back into his thoughts—the way his brow furrowed in concentration when he read, the quick, quiet smiles that slipped out when he caught something funny on the page.
Derek’s chest tightened with a mix of frustration and fondness. He shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. But every time he blinked, he saw Stiles again, lit by the soft yellow glow of his living room lamp, his fingers tapping lightly against his notebook. It was the image that had inspired the new chapter, the one he was desperate not to lose.
Behind him, the sound of turning pages filled the quiet. Isaac muttered to himself now and then—little approving noises, the occasional faint laugh—but Derek barely registered it. His focus stayed fixed on the screen, on the shape of the words forming in his head, on the phantom presence of the boy who kept finding his way into his stories.
Isaac appeared after a few minutes, tall and wiry, his messenger bag slung across his shoulder. He waved a thick folder in the air — the finished manuscript. “Got what I came for. Oh, and by the way,” he added with a teasing smile, “the female lead this time… she’s kind of boyish, isn’t she?”
Derek froze in place, fingers stiff above the keyboard. His mind flashed unhelpfully to Stiles — the messy hair, the lopsided grin, the way his shorts rode too high for the weather. His throat felt dry.
“I-Is that so?” Derek managed, pretending to sound casual. “I mean… it, uh, portrays the… you know, the more intense scenes better, right?”
Isaac raised an eyebrow. “If you say so. Honestly, I didn’t see that much of a difference. She just feels… real this time, I guess. Less polished. It’s nice.”
Derek blinked rapidly, trying to will away the warmth creeping up his neck. “Right. Real. That’s good.”
“Anyway,” Isaac said, tucking the manuscript into his bag. “I’ll take this home, mark it up tonight, and get notes to you by the weekend. You’re really speeding through these drafts lately. Something’s inspiring you, huh?”
Derek made a noncommittal sound that might have been a laugh. “Just trying to stay productive.”
Isaac smirked. “Sure. Whatever keeps you typing.” He headed toward the door, swinging his bag into place. “Alright, I’ll get going. Don’t stay up all night again. And for god’s sake, open a window sometimes. It smells like ink in here.”
“I’ll think about it,” Derek said, following him to the door.
“You always say that,” Isaac shot back over his shoulder. He paused by the door, one hand already on the knob. “Oh, and don’t forget Boyd’s birthday party this weekend. Erica’s going to kill you if you ghost us again.”
“I said I’ll be there,” Derek replied, though his tone was halfhearted. He already knew he’d end up buried in another late-night writing session, probably with Stiles reading quietly on the couch beside him. “Yes, yes, I'll be there.”
“Good,” Isaac said with a grin. “Because I’m not saving you if she comes for your throat.”
Derek rolled his eyes but couldn’t help smiling. “Duly noted.”
Isaac gave a lazy salute as he stepped into the hall. “See you, boss. Looking forward to the next one.”
“Yeah. Be careful on your way home,” Derek replied automatically, his voice trailing after him as the door clicked shut.
Silence settled back over the loft. Derek stood there for a long moment, then exhaled slowly and rubbed his temple.
“What am I doing,” he muttered under his breath. His eyes drifted to the notebook sitting open on the coffee table — the one Stiles had forgotten last night. The page was still marked with Stiles’s messy handwriting, his doodles and stray notes.
Derek sank onto the couch, staring at it, a faint smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Boyish, huh,” he said softly. “Yeah… maybe a little.”
The night of Boyd’s birthday arrived with the kind of chaos Derek had learned to expect from his friends. Erica had already texted him seven times in all caps demanding that he not “show up dressed like a funeral,” and Isaac had replied with a stream of laughing emojis and a photo of his own ridiculous sparkly shirt. Derek ignored both of them and wore his usual dark button-down.
He was halfway to the club, the car filled with Erica’s perfume and Isaac’s chatter, when something outside the window caught his attention. A small, modest building with a clean blue sign: Deaf Independent Living Foundation. The words made Derek’s pulse skip.
He slowed the car, staring at the sign a little too long. The lights inside were still on, even though it was already twenty minutes past seven.
Isaac leaned forward from the back seat. “Uh, Derek? Hate to break it to you, but this isn’t the club.”
“Sorry,” Derek said, his mind made up before he even finished the word. “We’re making a quick stop.”
Erica blinked. “Quick stop? At a… deaf institution? Are you trying to donate your ears or something?”
“Just trust me,” Derek muttered, pulling over to the curb. He turned off the ignition and stepped out of the car. Erica and Isaac exchanged a look before following.
The night air was cool, the building softly lit. A faint hum of fluorescent light buzzed behind the glass doors.
“Seriously, why are we here?” Erica asked, heels clicking against the pavement.
“Yeah,” Isaac added. “None of us are deaf. Well, except maybe Erica, since she never listens—ow!”
He doubled over when Erica’s handbag smacked into his ribs with alarming precision.
“Quiet, both of you,” Derek said, his patience thinning as he opened the door.
Inside, the reception area was quiet and neatly arranged. Posters lined the walls—support groups, language classes, outreach programs. Erica looked around like she’d just walked into another planet.
“Derek,” she hissed, lowering her voice as if the silence might bite her. “You planning to volunteer or something?”
“I’m gathering references,” Derek said.
“For what?” Isaac asked, frowning. “You already have three active projects. The mafia heiress webnovel, the adult comic script about the single mom, and that new magazine short with the whole… rope thing.”
Erica raised an eyebrow. “The rope thing?”
Isaac grinned. “You know what I mean.”
Derek glared at him. “It’s a new project,” he said curtly. “Just something I want to write.”
Isaac’s eyes widened. “Wait. You finally got inspired again?” His grin split into something almost feral. “Oh my god, Erica, did you hear that?”
Erica gasped, clasping her hands together like she was about to receive an award. “You’re kidding! Another personal project? We’re finally getting another best-seller! I told you, Isaac! Moving out of that gloomy apartment worked! I knew it!”
Derek rubbed the back of his neck, guilt tugging at him. They were his closest collaborators—Isaac handled editing and review, Erica took care of PR—but they still thought his sudden burst of creativity was just artistic resurgence. Not the quiet boy who’d slowly made his way into Derek’s head and, apparently, his plots.
He opened his mouth to tell them not to get too excited, but Erica was already herding him toward the counter. “What are you waiting for? The receptionist is right there!”
Derek tried to protest. “Erica, it’s just a few questions, I don’t need—”
“Go!” she said, waving a manicured hand. “I’ll call Boyd and tell him we’re running late.”
Before Derek could stop her, she had already swept out the door, phone pressed to her ear.
Isaac followed, patting Derek on the shoulder. “I’m grabbing a drink from the convenience store across the street. Want anything? Coffee? No? Alright, man, take your time. I’ll meet you outside.”
And then he was gone too, leaving Derek standing awkwardly in the quiet lobby.
He sighed, glancing around. The receptionist smiled politely, waiting for him to approach.
Derek straightened his shoulders, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and walked to the counter. He could almost hear Isaac’s voice in his head—Sure, Derek, just a few questions. Next thing we know, you’re adopting five deaf puppies and writing poetry about them.
He shook his head, fighting a smirk.
The receptionist looked up from her desk as Derek approached, her polite smile flickering just slightly at the sound of Erica’s laughter outside. It was the kind of laughter that could rattle glass, followed by Isaac’s unmistakable groan of pain. She adjusted her glasses and glanced past Derek toward the door before returning her focus to him.
“Welcome,” a woman with a nametag that read Charice greeted him, her tone even and professional. “Can I help you?”
Derek could tell she was trying not to frown, probably judging their group for the noise. In a place like this—calm, quiet, almost reverent—the ruckus from outside must have felt like a small earthquake.
“Hi,” Derek said softly, offering an apologetic smile. “I was hoping to ask a few questions about your programs.”
The woman straightened, her expression smoothing into one of polite interest. “Of course. Are the questions for you, or for someone you know?”
“Both, actually,” Derek admitted.
Her expression warmed at that. She reached for a stack of pamphlets on the counter and handed him one. “That’s wonderful. Here’s our introduction brochure. Our foundation was established in 1982. We’re a community-based, multi-service nonprofit run by and for Deaf, DeafBlind, Hard of Hearing, and Late-Deafened adults.”
Derek took the brochure carefully, his fingers brushing the glossy paper.
She continued, her tone carrying the practiced ease of someone who had given this explanation countless times. “We offer a variety of services, including educational, vocational, and residential support, as well as information and interpreter referrals. We focus on promoting active, independent living for the people we serve.”
“That’s really amazing,” Derek said sincerely. “You help people find employment too?”
“To a certain degree, yes,” she replied. “A lot of members of our community benefit from the training programs here. We help them find suitable career paths based on their strengths.”
Derek nodded, genuinely impressed. His eyes lingered on the photos displayed on the wall behind her—people smiling at community events, hands moving mid-sign, the quiet strength in every face.
“That’s incredible,” he said quietly. “And you also teach sign language here?”
“Yes,” she said with a small nod. “We have classes for both those who need to learn ASL and those who simply wish to communicate better with the Deaf community. Many of our trainers are Deaf themselves.”
Derek leaned in a little, interested. “Is there a schedule for those classes? And maybe more information about them?”
“Of course.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out another pamphlet, a neatly folded sheet labeled ASL for Beginners. “We offer morning, afternoon, and evening sessions. The fees go directly to our trainers since they’re all members of the Deaf community. The program is a wonderful way to learn directly from those who live the language.”
“That’s perfect,” Derek said, scanning the page. “Actually… I’d like to sign up.”
The woman’s eyebrows lifted in pleasant surprise. “That’s great to hear. Which time slot works best for you?”
“Morning,” Derek said without hesitation. His work schedule was flexible, and he liked the idea of keeping his evenings free—for writing, of course. And for Stiles.
As he filled out the form, he found himself imagining Stiles’s reaction. Maybe he’d be surprised, or maybe he’d roll his eyes and call Derek ridiculous. But maybe, just maybe, he’d be touched. Derek hoped Stiles might even want to join him.
When Derek handed the completed form back, the receptionist gave him a satisfied nod. “You’ll receive an email confirmation within a few hours,” she said. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you,” Derek said, slipping the pamphlets into his jacket pocket. “And… thank you for what you do here.”
The woman smiled, and something about it reminded him faintly of Stiles—warm, but with a kind of understanding that came from knowing the world could be difficult and still choosing kindness anyway.
Outside, Erica’s laughter erupted again, followed by Isaac’s horrified, “You didn’t actually tell Boyd we’re skipping his cake, did you?”
Derek winced, murmured another thanks, and stepped back toward the door.
As the cool night air hit his face, he couldn’t help smiling. He had only meant to stop for a few minutes, but somehow this detour felt like the start of something bigger. Something that, for once, didn’t come from words on a page.
He looked toward the car where Erica was gleefully recounting something to Isaac, both of them gesturing dramatically.
“Alright,” Derek muttered as he climbed in, “let’s get to Boyd’s before Jackson talks his ears into bleeding.”
Erica grinned at him in the rearview mirror. “That's quicker than I thought it'd be.”
Derek didn’t answer. He just smiled faintly, the pamphlet warm in his pocket.
Stiles did not show up for a few days after Boyd’s birthday party.
He never asked about it either, even though Derek had texted him beforehand to say he would be busy with his friend’s celebration that night. Derek told himself that was a good thing. A relief. The last thing he wanted was to admit he had wanted to bring Stiles along but stopped himself at the last second, remembering how much Stiles disliked crowds and noise.
Even so, a quiet part of him worried. Worried that Stiles might think he had been replaced. Worried he assumed Derek preferred loud clubs and chaotic birthdays over their quiet routine. Worried Stiles believed Derek would rather choose his friends than choose him.
By Sunday night, Derek had almost convinced himself that Stiles would not come again. Which was exactly why, when the doorbell rang on Monday evening, Derek nearly tripped twice in his rush to get to the door.
He pulled it open and froze.
Stiles stood there in his hoodie, cheeks flushed pink from the chill. His bag hung from his shoulder, and his eyes were wide and uncertain. Derek could swear there was a faint reddish glow at the tips of his ears too.
They stood there in silence for a long moment, just staring. Then Stiles raised an eyebrow, as if to say, Are you going to let me in or what?
“Oh. Right,” Derek said quickly, stepping aside.
Stiles walked in and dropped his bag on the couch. He looked around the living room like it was familiar territory but somehow still new after the short absence. Derek’s hands twitched before he lifted them and began to sign.
I missed you. Where have you been?
His movements were slow, careful. The flat hand brushing his chin before moving forward for “missed.” The point of his index fingers circling each other for “where.” The soft twist of his hands for “been.”
Stiles’s brows furrowed, then he answered in sign, a little hesitant.
I cleaned my apartment during the weekend. What did you—
He stopped. A frown creased his face as he stared at Derek’s hands. Then he lifted his head and began moving his own hands.
Did you just use sign language?
Derek’s lips twitched, and he signed again, I did, before laughing out loud.
Stiles blinked rapidly. His hands started to move, You did very well! I was… then faltered, then he reached for the small notebook hanging around his neck. He scribbled something quickly, his writing fast and sharp.
You did very well! I was surprised you signed it so smoothly.
He flipped the book and showed it to Derek with an almost shy smile.
Derek chuckled, reached for the pen and notebook, and wrote back:
I actually signed up for a course at a Deaf institution. The teachers are really great at teaching me.
Stiles’s eyebrows rose high. He took the notebook again and scribbled.
You took a sign language course?
Derek nodded, smiling faintly.
Why?
Stiles added on the same page.
Derek moved his hand and signed: So I can talk to you.
Stiles looked up, his expression unreadable. Then he wrote again, slower this time.
We can talk with the notebook.
Derek smiled, his eyes soft. He reached for the notebook and the pen and began writing.
Yeah, but isn’t it faster with sign language? I was hoping you’d take the course too. They have an evening class. You could join after work. Do you want to?
Stiles stared down at the notebook, his fingers tapping the edge of the page. He looked conflicted. Derek could see it in the tight set of his jaw, the way his eyes darted away.
Right. He had pushed too far.
Derek signed carefully, You don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to. Maybe you can just look around first. I can show you the place. They are good people. I’ve made a few friends there.
Stiles’s shoulders eased a little, but he still hesitated before scribbling again.
Isn’t it expensive? I dropped out of my ASL course because it was too expensive.
Derek stared at the words. Expensive? The course he took was affordable, especially for members of the Deaf community. Maybe the place Stiles had gone to before was a private program.
Without a word, Derek went to his office and came back with a small pile of brochures and pamphlets. He handed them over, then took the pen to write another note:
It’s actually very affordable. They especially support the Deaf community. I was really impressed by how much they do.
Stiles nodded slowly as he read through the material, his expression softening.
Derek wrote again.
Maybe I could show you around. You can ask them yourself.
This time, Stiles smiled. He looked like he wanted to say yes, but instead he signed and mouthed I’ll think about it.
Derek smiled back and took that as a victory.
They slipped easily back into their routine. Stiles chose a spot near the couch and began browsing Derek’s bookshelf while Derek went to brew tea. Stiles preferred jasmine, and Derek had learned to keep a jar just for him. The scent filled the air as the water boiled.
When Derek returned with two cups of tea, Stiles was not reading. Instead, he stood by the coffee table with his notebook in hand, eyes bright with curiosity. He handed Derek a note.
I want to read your books.
How come I haven’t seen anything by Derek Hale around?
Do you use a different pen name? What’s your pen name?
Derek froze.
Oh no.
Oh, absolutely not.
He could feel the blood drain from his face as he stared at the words. This was it. The day Stiles would find out what he actually wrote for a living. The day Stiles would realize Derek Hale, calm, polite, book-brewing Derek Hale, made his income by writing erotic novels.
He was going to think Derek was a pervert. And then he was going to walk straight out the door.
Derek stood there holding the note, heart thundering in his chest, while Stiles tilted his head expectantly, waiting for an answer.
Derek stared at the note in his hand, then at Stiles who stood expectantly beside the coffee table, eyes bright with curiosity. He could already feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck.
He reached for the notebook that had become their shared voice and scribbled.
I’m not a good writer. You wouldn’t like my work.
Stiles’s eyes widened, and then his expression shifted into something almost offended. He grabbed the notebook back and wrote quickly, the letters slanting from his urgency.
No way. With a ton of books like this, I bet you’re great at it!
When he finished, he looked up, mouth tilted in a teasing grin, as if daring Derek to contradict him.
Then Stiles raised his hands and signed, a little clumsy but perfectly understandable. Please. I want to read it.
Derek hesitated. His mind flashed through every possible reaction Stiles might have if he found out what kind of books he actually wrote. None of those scenarios ended well.
He took the notebook again and wrote.
I don’t think it’s a good idea.
Stiles stared at the words, then exhaled sharply, puffing out his cheeks. He crossed his arms and let out an exaggerated huff, before walking away with a pout that was far too cute for Derek’s peace of mind.
He stomped toward the bookshelf like a sulking cat, his steps loud and deliberate.
Derek sighed, already knowing how this would go. He always told himself he was firm, that he had boundaries, that he could say no when he needed to. But when it came to Stiles, all of that melted like sugar in hot tea.
Fine. He would let him have what he wanted. Eventually.
But not without getting something out of it first.
Derek stood, straightened his posture, and walked back to his office. The door creaked open with a sound he had grown used to ignoring, but tonight it felt too loud, as if it was announcing something he should not be doing.
The office was small but organized. At least on the surface. Inside the shelves were rows of books that no one had ever seen except his publisher and editor. Covers gleamed in every shade of temptation: half-dressed lovers, cryptic shadows, breathless titles. He winced at the sight. Definitely not The Sculptor’s Desire or Velvet and Claws. Those are off limits.
“Right,” he muttered to himself. “So much for subtlety.”
He scanned the shelves for something less explicit, something that would not make Stiles blush straight out of the apartment. His fingers paused on one spine and he pulled it free. It was titled Moonlight Confessions. It was one of his earlier works, more romantic than erotic, with only a few scenes that could make someone blush if they read too carefully.
He grabbed a small sticky note from the desk and scribbled something quickly on it, sticking it to the cover before tucking the book behind his back.
When he returned to the living room, Stiles had settled on the couch, flipping through one of Derek’s unrelated paperbacks. He looked up as Derek approached, his expression instantly curious.
Derek handed him a note first.
I’m lending you one of my original works, on one condition. You go to the institution tomorrow after work.
Stiles read it twice, his expression thoughtful. Then he looked at Derek and signed simply, OK, before holding out both hands and making a playful grabby motion, his grin wide and expectant.
Derek could not help the soft laugh that escaped him. He handed over the book.
Stiles took it reverently, like it was some sacred treasure. He examined the cover with care, tracing his finger over the embossed name printed in elegant lettering: Michael Wolfe.
He looked up at Derek and raised his brows, pointing to the pen name with a grin that said, This is you, isn’t it?
Derek nodded, smiling faintly.
The smile that bloomed on Stiles’s face could have lit the whole room.
He flipped open the first page, curiosity already sparking in his eyes. Derek panicked. He reached out, grabbed Stiles’s wrist gently, and closed the book again. Then he took the notebook from around Stiles’s neck and wrote.
Read it at home.
When Stiles lifted his gaze, Derek could feel his own face burning. He knew exactly how red he must look, and Stiles knew it too. There was amusement in his eyes, like he was enjoying every second of Derek’s discomfort.
But he nodded obediently and closed the book, tucking it safely into his bag.
Only then did Derek feel his lungs start working again.
Stiles went back to the shelf, picked up the book he had been reading before, and returned to the couch. Derek pointed at the tea on the table, which was just warm enough now to drink. Stiles nodded and reached for it with a quiet smile.
The evening slipped back into its familiar rhythm. Derek worked on his manuscript while Stiles read beside him, the only sounds being the soft rustle of pages and the distant hum of the city outside.
By the time Stiles stood and signed that he was going home, it was already 10 PM. He slung his bag over his shoulder and turned toward the door.
Derek followed him there, then signed, I’ll pick you up at the factory at five tomorrow.
Stiles blinked in surprise, then smiled and signed back, Five. OK.
He waved once before stepping out, the faint smell of jasmine lingering behind him.
Derek closed the door, leaned against it, and exhaled a slow, heavy breath.
Tomorrow. He was going to pick Stiles up tomorrow.
And tonight, Stiles was going to read Moonlight Confessions.
God help him.
Stiles didn’t even remember the walk back to his apartment. The cool night air barely registered, his thoughts a restless blur of Derek and the weight of the book in his bag. By the time he reached his building, his pulse was still racing like he’d done something reckless. Maybe he had. Because nestled safely between his notebook and phone charger was the book — Derek’s book.
He took the fastest shower known to man, scrubbing off the day and barely remembering to rinse the shampoo out of his hair. His only goal was to get clean, comfortable, and in bed. Ten minutes later, he was wearing an old hoodie and soft cotton shorts, damp hair sticking up everywhere.
The book sat waiting on his nightstand, its dark cover gleaming faintly under the lamplight. Moonlight Confessions, the title said in elegant silver script. The name underneath it — Michael Wolfe — was still unreal to him. Derek. Derek freaking Hale. That Derek had written this.
He picked it up carefully, tracing the embossed letters with his fingertips like he might smudge them if he wasn’t gentle enough. Then he flipped it open. The first page had a quote about the nature of desire, the kind of poetic thing that made his chest feel tight and a little shy at the same time.
The story started in a small mountain town. A quiet woodsman. A girl who wandered too far from the village. The air between them crackled from the very first meeting. Stiles could almost see it — the candlelight, the forest fog, the ache of something forbidden. The writing was rich and atmospheric, but not overdone. Every line carried Derek’s kind of precision, the kind that said he’d labored over every word until it was exactly right.
Stiles couldn’t stop. He devoured each chapter, flipping the pages faster and faster, the world outside fading away. The clock on his nightstand blinked past midnight, then one, but he barely noticed.
When he finally reached that part — the first real touch, the heat between them spilling over — Stiles froze. The prose didn’t shy away; it was vivid and deliberate, the kind of writing that painted everything in careful strokes. It was intimate without being crude, tender without losing intensity.
His cheeks felt like they were on fire. He pressed the book closer to his face, as if hiding behind it would somehow make the words less scandalous. “Holy crap,” he muttered into the pages, muffled and horrified and fascinated all at once.
He peeked again, read another paragraph, and groaned quietly. He had no business reading this in the middle of the night. And yet, he couldn’t stop.
Because this wasn’t just a book. It was Derek’s mind. Derek’s words. Derek’s imagination laid bare. And Stiles wasn’t sure what was more dangerous — how much he liked it, or how much he suddenly wanted to know what else Derek could write like that.
Notes:
Hope you enjoyed reading. Kudos and comments are always appreciated! They genuinely keep me going.
Chapter 4
Notes:
Hi everyone! Hope you have a great weekend. Happy reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Derek told himself to calm down. This was not a date. Absolutely not. This was him helping Stiles get to the institution so he could learn ASL, make friends like himself, and have an easier time fitting into the world again. That was it.
He arrived ten minutes early anyway, parking across from the factory gate beside a small convenience store. His hands rested on the steering wheel, tapping restlessly while he checked his reflection in the rearview mirror for what must have been the fifth time. His hair was still holding thanks to the gel, and his shirt, a dark henley that clung to his arms, was neat enough. He even smelled like the cedarwood cologne Erica had given him last Christmas. It was ridiculous that he cared.
At fifteen past five, the factory gate opened and workers began spilling out. Then Stiles appeared among them, and Derek forgot how to breathe for a second.
He wore faded blue jeans and a soft gray T-shirt, a flannel button-up thrown loosely over it. The evening light caught him just right, turning his eyes into something warm and gold. The small notebook and pen hanging around his neck swayed slightly as he walked. There was a faint scar running from his left temple to his cheek, and instead of making him look broken, it made him look... real.
Stiles paused outside the gate and pulled something small from his pocket—his collapsible white cane—and began dragging it lightly against the ground. Derek couldn't help the tug at the corner of his face. Stiles clearly hated using the walking stick. He's not blind, of course, but in the crowds, a cane would be visible and people would be alerted that he had special needs. That's what made Derek suggested holding a walking stick in the first place. The city wasn't exactly deaf friendly.
Stiles looked around, brows knitting together as if trying to spot Derek. It took Derek a beat too long to realize that Stiles had never seen his car before.
His phone buzzed on the console. A new text lit up the screen.
I’m off work.
Derek smiled to himself, shut off the engine, and stepped out. Derek walked closer to the factory entrance, and when their eyes met, Stiles’ whole face brightened.
Derek waved him over and led the way to the black Camaro. He reached the passenger side first and opened the door. Stiles gave a small grin, mouthing a silent “thank you” while signing it at the same time.
Once Derek slipped behind the wheel, Stiles was already writing something down in his notebook. He tilted it toward Derek, eyes gleaming.
You have a very nice car. What car is this?
Derek reached for the notebook, fingers brushing against Stiles’ in the exchange. His touch lingered for a fraction longer than necessary before he took the pen.
Thanks. It’s a 2010 Chevy Camaro. Do you like it?
He wrote, then immediately wanted to groan. What kind of question was that? What difference would it make if Stiles liked it or not?
But Stiles nodded enthusiastically, his grin growing wider. He scribbled quickly, flipped the notebook around, and Derek read:
It’s awesome!
Something warm uncoiled in Derek’s chest. He gave a quiet laugh and started the engine, the Camaro humming smoothly to life. Stiles pressed a hand against the window as the city lights began to blur past, looking almost content.
The drive to the institution was quiet but comfortable. Music played softly from the radio, something instrumental and low enough that only Derek could hear. The city lights slipped by outside the window, and Derek caught himself glancing at Stiles every now and then. The way his fingers tapped lightly against his thigh, the way his gaze followed the street lamps—there was something about the quietness that felt peaceful.
When they arrived, Derek parked in the small lot beside the Deaf Independent Living Foundation. He unbuckled his seatbelt, ready to circle around and open Stiles’ door for him, but Stiles was quicker, already stepping out with his bag slung across his shoulder. Derek managed to close the door for him instead, earning a quick sideways glance from Stiles that looked suspiciously like amusement.
“Come on,” Derek said, motioning for him to follow.
Inside, the building was bright and welcoming, filled with soft lighting and muted tones. A woman sat behind the reception desk, typing on her computer. Derek smiled politely and greeted her, then gestured toward Stiles.
“This is my friend, Stiles. I was hoping to show him around,” he said, half-signing the words as he spoke.
The receptionist’s face lit up with understanding. “Of course. This is the one you told me about last week, right? For the program?”
Derek nodded, feeling a faint heat rise to his cheeks. “That’s right.”
“Perfect. I can give you a quick tour,” she said.
She led them down the hallway, stopping in front of a wide glass window that looked into a classroom. Inside, a group of students sat in a circle, their hands moving in smooth, synchronized gestures. There was no sound, yet the room was full of life. Laughter showed on faces, communication flowing freely through motion alone.
Stiles pressed closer to the glass, eyes fixed on the scene. His expression softened as he watched the students converse. His fingers twitched slightly, like he wanted to join in. Derek glanced at him and couldn’t help noticing how the light framed his face, how his lips curved in quiet awe.
The receptionist started explaining the programs on the notebook so Stiles could read it. Derek half-listened as the woman speak while writing, too distracted by how Stiles’ reflection looked in the glass. Eventually, Stiles turned toward him, and for the first time, Derek realized he had been signing small things to the receptionist without thinking—his hand movements now fluid and confident.
Stiles’ brows lifted in surprise, and he gave Derek a look that said, You’ve been practicing.
Derek smiled sheepishly.
They continued the tour, stopping by a few bulletin boards showing photographs of students who had completed training programs. There were notes about jobs, from office work to small business management. One display caught Stiles’ eye—a photo of a young man working at a local community center, smiling proudly.
Stiles’ fingers brushed the edge of the photo before he reached for his notebook.
He wrote:
This is amazing. They help people like me find work?
Derek wrote a reply.
They do. And they’re good at it too. You’d fit in here.
Stiles hesitated, looking down at the page again. His pen hovered for a few seconds before he added,
Give me some time to think about it.
Derek nodded. “Of course.”
He turned back to the receptionist and thanked her for the tour, promising they would be in touch. Then he motioned for Stiles to follow him back outside.
He held the door open as they stepped into the cool evening air, and Stiles gave him a small frown, clearly torn between gratitude and discomfort. He had always tried to be self-reliant, even when he didn’t need to be.
Derek offered a half-smile and signed slowly, careful with the movements: Wanna go to my place?
Stiles blinked once, then nodded, a faint pink coloring his cheeks.
“Alright then,” Derek murmured, guiding him to the car. This time, he opened the passenger door again, and even though Stiles frowned at him for it, he didn’t protest.
By the time Derek rounded to the driver’s side, Stiles was already seated, his hand resting lightly on the book bag in his lap. Derek glanced over, heart doing that quiet, stupid thing it always did when Stiles was near. And with that, he step on the gas and drove them back to his loft.
It was Stiles’ first time in the parking lot of Derek’s apartment building. He stood quietly beside him in the dimly lit space, his gaze darting around like he was trying to memorize every detail. The air smelled faintly of rain and asphalt, the night quiet except for the distant hum of traffic.
When they stepped into the elevator, Stiles stayed close enough that their arms brushed. He looked up at the numbered lights above the door, his reflection faint in the stainless steel walls. Derek tried to act normal, like his pulse wasn’t doing something ridiculous just because Stiles was standing this close, looking so small and warm under the dull glow of the ceiling light.
By the time they reached Derek’s floor, the city outside had gone fully dark. Inside the loft, the soft amber lighting spilled across polished wood and the faint scent of coffee and old paper filled the air. Derek set down the takeout bag from the drive-thru on the kitchen table and moved to make tea, out of habit.
He turned back just in time to see Stiles practically inhale his burger. He ate like he hadn’t had a proper meal in days, cheeks puffed, ketchup on his thumb. Derek bit back a smile, pouring hot water into the kettle and turning on the stove. Everything Stiles did was cute. Even when he tried not to be. Especially then.
Stiles was still chewing when Derek sat down across from him, taking out his cheeseburger. When the last of the fries disappeared, Stiles wiped his hands carefully, his eyes flicking toward his bag. Derek followed the motion just as Stiles pulled out Moonlight Confession and placed it on the table between them.
The sight of it made Derek’s stomach twist.
Stiles scribbled something quickly on his notebook and turned it around for him to read:
You lied. It was a great book.
Derek cleared his throat, feeling the back of his neck heat up. He picked up the pen.
You finished it already?
Stiles’ lips quirked as he nodded, writing back.
I finished it in one sitting.
That startled Derek more than it should have. He lifted his cup, pretending to sip, anything to keep from meeting Stiles’ eyes.
Stiles flipped to a fresh page.
It’s pretty intense.
Derek frowned. “Intense?” he murmured, brow furrowing. The book was a fantasy romance with a touch of drama. It was supposed to be sweet, a little sad, not… intense. Unless—
When he glanced up, Stiles’ face had turned red. He was avoiding eye contact, looking a little too interested in the tea steam.
Ah. That part.
Derek swallowed, suddenly very aware of how hot the room felt. He scribbled back, careful to keep his handwriting steady.
As I said, I’m not a very good writer. Sorry if it wasn’t as you imagined.
Stiles frowned, immediately reaching for the pen again. His movements were quick, insistent.
Not at all. You’re really good at making readers feel like they’re there. The way you describe things—it’s like I could see it, feel it. And I especially liked the sex part.
He pushed the notebook across the table.
Derek froze, eyes jumping from the words to Stiles’ face, which was now completely flushed.
“Really?” he managed to say, his voice rougher than intended.
Stiles nodded, cheeks still pink. He wrote again, smaller this time.
They’re so vivid. Like when the female lead and the male lead do it the second time. That’s my favorite part.
Derek nearly choked on air. He gave a strangled laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Glad to know my, uh… descriptive skills are appreciated.”
Having readers praise his steamy scenes was one thing. Having Stiles praise them, sitting right there with that bright, earnest expression, was a completely different kind of torture.
Before Derek could think of a way to change the subject, Stiles was writing again.
I want to read The Sculptor’s Desire, Velvet and Claws, and Blood on Snow.
Derek’s jaw dropped. He blinked and then reached for the notebook.
How did you even know those titles?
A faint smile tugged at Stiles’ mouth. He wrote slowly, his ears turning red again.
I googled your pen name. You have a lot of novels. There’s this recommendation page that said I must read those three books.
Derek read the reply twice, unsure whether to laugh or hide under the table.
Finally, he wrote back.
The Sculptor’s Desire and Velvet and Claws are off-limits. They’re too intense.
Stiles frowned and leaned forward, pouting. The expression nearly broke Derek’s resolve.
He had to look away. No, he was not giving in this time. Those two novels were practically letters to sin—he could not, under any circumstances, let Stiles read them.
After a few moments, Stiles grabbed the pen again, scribbling with a determined look.
Then give me Blood on Snow.
Derek let out a quiet groan. That one wasn’t much better. Maybe shorter, yes, but definitely not tamer. Still, he could already feel himself caving.
He sighed, meeting Stiles’ hopeful gaze. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered under his breath. And just like that, he knew he was doomed to let Stiles have his way. Again.
Derek stood, taking Moonlight Confession from the table and carrying it into his office. The air in the loft felt a little too heavy, still thick with the faint scent of burgers and the lingering warmth from Stiles’ laughter. He slid the book back onto the shelf where it belonged, his fingers brushing along the spines of his other works until he found the one Stiles had asked for.
Blood on Snow.
He hesitated a moment before pulling it free. Even holding it made him question his own judgment. That particular novel was darker than Moonlight Confession—less sweet, more indulgent. He carried it back to the living room anyway, where Stiles sat curled up on the couch, still glowing faintly from their earlier teasing.
Derek held the book out and signed for him to read it later, at home. But Stiles only tilted his head, eyes gleaming with stubborn amusement. Before Derek could insist, Stiles reached up, snatched the book from his hand, and dropped himself more comfortably into the cushions. He opened the first page like he had been waiting his entire life to do it.
Derek’s mouth twitched. He almost reached to take it back, but the whistle of the kettle pulled his attention away.
The tea.
He turned off the stove and poured the hot water into their cups, steam curling softly in the quiet kitchen. When he came back, Stiles was already several pages in, brow furrowed in deep focus. Derek placed one cup on the coffee table near the couch, careful not to disturb him, and set the other on the center table where he usually worked.
He didn’t open his laptop tonight. The unfinished project on his desk could wait. Instead, he picked up his tablet and skimmed through his emails—mostly work-related, nothing that required real focus. His eyes kept drifting toward the couch.
Toward him.
Derek tried to focus on the glow of his tablet screen, but his attention kept slipping back to the figure on his couch. At first, Derek tried not to look. He really did. But the sight was magnetic.
Stiles sat half-curled against the armrest, one knee bent, the soft lamplight tracing the slope of his jaw and the curve of his cheek. His lashes were long, darker at the base, fluttering as he read. The faint scar that crossed from his temple to his cheek caught the light whenever he shifted. Derek’s gaze lingered there, a quiet ache blooming in his chest. He wondered what it felt like to run his fingers along it, to trace the smooth line with his thumb and memorize it by touch alone. He shouldn’t think about that, but the thought came anyway, uninvited and heavy with wanting.
Stiles was a terrible liar when it came to hiding his reactions. His face was an open book. Every flick of his brow, every tiny purse of his lips, every faint shift of color on his cheeks said exactly what he was thinking. Stiles’ expression softened as he read, his lips parting slightly when something emotional hit. Then, a few pages later, his shoulders stiffened. He blinked too quickly, like he was trying to pretend he didn’t just read something that made him blush. Derek knew exactly which chapter he had reached.
And then it happened.
Stiles peeked over the top of the book, eyes flicking toward Derek.
It was so quick, he might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching. But he saw the faint panic in those brown eyes, the way Stiles immediately looked back down, burying half his face behind the cover.
Derek’s lips curved, an amused warmth spreading through his chest.
A few minutes passed, and it happened again. Another glance. Longer this time. Like Stiles was waiting to see if Derek was watching him.
He was.
Every time Stiles’ eyes lifted, Derek’s gaze was there—calm, steady, pretending to be focused on his tablet but never quite able to tear himself away.
By the third time, Stiles was fidgeting. His fingers played with the edge of the page, his leg bounced slightly against the couch. He looked like someone caught doing something he shouldn’t, yet unable to stop.
Derek caught the faint sound of a nervous sigh. Stiles’ face was red now, eyes darting from the words on the page to Derek and back again. He must have reached one of the more explicit scenes. Derek knew exactly which one—he had written it years ago, but it still made him flustered if he thought about it too much.
He leaned back, pretending to scroll through another email, though the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him.
When Stiles peeked again, Derek’s eyes were already waiting.
Their gazes met.
Stiles froze, caught in the act. His lips parted soundlessly before he buried his face deeper in the book, pretending to read. Derek could see the tips of his ears turning crimson.
The silence stretched between them, thick with something unspoken.
Derek took a slow sip of tea. “That chapter’s... descriptive,” he said finally, voice low, almost amused.
Stiles didn’t look up. He couldn't hear it. He raised the book higher, as if hiding would make him disappear.
Derek let out a quiet breath of laughter and went back to pretending to read his tablet. He could feel the tension buzzing softly in the air between them, fragile and warm, like static before a storm.
As Stiles turned another page, Derek could tell he was trying very hard to look casual. His shoulders were tight, movements too careful, like someone pretending not to react while his pulse betrayed him. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint sound of paper turning. Then, without warning, the book snapped shut with a sharp clap.
Derek looked up from his tablet in surprise.
Stiles was already on his feet, his back turned toward him. The sudden shift in body language made Derek pause. Stiles reached for his sling bag that hung on the arm of the couch, slipped the book inside, and let the strap hang loosely in front of him. He didn’t look back. Instead, he lifted his hands to sign, a little slower than usual: It’s getting late. I should go home.
The movement was slightly stiff, as if his fingers had forgotten their rhythm. His face, though—Derek could see the color blooming high on his cheeks, creeping down to his neck. It was unmistakable.
Derek stood halfway from his seat, uncertain whether to insist he stay for a bit longer or let him go. The flustered set of Stiles’ shoulders decided it for him. He nodded, keeping his expression neutral.
As Stiles slipped on his shoes near the door, Derek caught the briefest glimpse of his profile, the faint tremble of his jaw as he tried to compose himself. Whatever he had read in those last few pages had clearly done something to him. Perhaps Stiles didn't like the BDSM part? It could be very uncomfortable if it's your first time reading those kinds of stuff.
When the door closed softly behind him, Derek exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The apartment felt a little too quiet now, the air faintly charged.
He stared at the empty space on the couch where Stiles had been sitting, the cushion still creased from his weight, and rubbed the back of his neck.
Yeah. Neither of them was ever going to look at his books the same way again.
Notes:
Kudos and comments are very welcome and appreciated. It keeps me going!
Chapter Text
Stiles did not show up for the rest of the week. Derek tried not to take it personally, though every night felt a little quieter than it should. He told himself that it was fine, that Stiles probably had other things to do, that it was none of his business. But the truth was, every time the clock hit eight, Derek would find his gaze drifting to the door.
When Saturday finally came and the doorbell rang, he almost knocked over his coffee mug rushing to answer it.
Stiles stood there, hands in the pockets of his jacket, hair a little messy from the wind. Derek fought the instinct to grin too wide. He stepped aside and signed, Come on in.
Stiles smiled, just a little, before walking in. Instead of heading straight to the couch like usual, he made his way to the dining table, nose twitching as the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.
“Want some?” Derek asked, using both his voice and his hands. “I can heat it up for you.”
Stiles nodded eagerly, signing, Actually, yes please.
Derek turned back to the counter and pressed the button on the coffee maker. The faint hum filled the kitchen, the comforting sound grounding him a little. He returned to the table where Stiles was already sitting, fingers brushing over the edge of the wooden surface, as if he were memorizing its texture.
“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Derek said, speaking and signing at once.
Stiles looked up at him, hands moving. I signed up for the program the next day. It’s an evening class, so by the time it ends, I just go home.
Derek’s brows lifted. You finally signed up? That’s great! The seven to nine class?
Yes, Stiles signed. I wanted a six o’clock class, but that’s their break time. It’s fine though. I get to talk to people before class starts. Everyone there is really nice.
Derek nodded, smiling without thinking. They are. And talking with them really helps me improve my signing too.
Stiles’ answering grin made his chest feel too warm.
The coffee machine chimed softly. Derek stood, poured a cup for Stiles, and topped off his own. When he placed Stiles’ cup in front of him, the younger man lifted a finger suddenly, eyes lighting up. He signed, I have something to show you.
Derek tilted his head, half nervous. 'Please don’t let it be feedback on my books,' he thought. He wasn’t ready for that conversation again.
Stiles rummaged through his bag and pulled out a thick white book. He held it up proudly. The title read The Simple Sign Language Dictionary.
Derek signed, You bought this?
Stiles shook his head, then placed it on the table. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled quickly while Derek took a sip of coffee.
When Stiles turned the notebook around, the words made Derek choke.
DILF gave it to me!
The coffee went the wrong way instantly. Derek coughed, eyes watering, trying desperately not to spray it across the table. He managed to angle away, sputtering helplessly as Stiles jumped up and patted his back with surprising force.
If Derek hadn’t been choking, he might have stopped breathing for a completely different reason. It was the first time Stiles had ever touched him, his hand warm and steady between his shoulder blades.
When the fit finally subsided, Derek leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth and glaring weakly. Stiles, looking guilty, reclaimed his seat. Derek reached for the notebook again, double-checking the word just to be sure he hadn’t misread.
Nope. Still “DILF.”
He pointed at the word, mouthing and signing, “Who do you mean by this?”
Stiles frowned, confused. He pointed to the thick dictionary, lifting it slightly so Derek could see the small text printed under the title: Deaf Independent Living Foundation.
Derek blinked. “The institution,” he muttered aloud, half in relief, half in disbelief.
Stiles nodded eagerly, then wrote beneath the word:
That’s the acronym we use for it.
Derek sighed and scribbled back.
Please just say ‘the institution’ when we talk about it.
Stiles scoffed and gave him a teasing look, like Derek was the one being weird.
The rest of the afternoon passed in easy quiet. Stiles practiced a few new signs with the help of his dictionary, occasionally asking Derek to correct him. Because of course Derek picked up sign language faster than Stiles. He'd always been gifted with languages and literature. Stiles' movements were still clumsy, but his enthusiasm was genuine. Derek found himself smiling more than once watching him try.
When the light outside began to dim, Stiles packed his things. From his bag, he pulled out Blood on Snow and placed it gently on the table.
He signed, I like this one too. His cheeks had the faintest pink tint.
Derek raised a brow, feeling his own face warm. What do you like about it? he asked, both in voice and sign.
Stiles’ hands moved quickly, describing the characters and the plot with surprising detail, before hesitating and adding that there were… a lot more sex scenes.
Derek snorted. “That’s true,” he said with a crooked smile. “I hope it didn’t ruin the story for you.”
Stiles waved his hands frantically, eyes wide. Not at all! Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he grabbed his notebook and wrote, They’re very well written. Very…
He paused, thinking hard for the right word, then scribbled:
Very graphic. Spicy.
Derek pressed his lips together to stop from laughing. Stiles’ expression was too earnest to tease.
Before he could reply, Stiles added with a small, firm motion of his hands, I want another book to bring home.
That made Derek freeze.
He realized with a sinking feeling that he had already given Stiles the tamest ones. Everything else on his shelf was… not tame. Not even close.
He met Stiles’ hopeful gaze and tried to think fast, but there was no way out of this one.
He was doomed.
Stiles fell into a routine after that. He only visited Derek’s apartment on weekends, always showing up with his notebook slung around his neck and a shy but eager smile on his face. Their weekends slipped into something comfortable, something that felt almost domestic. Stiles would settle near the couch with his thick white dictionary and practice his signs while Derek sat at his desk, pretending to work on his manuscript.
It had started with small things. Derek correcting the flick of his wrist here, or the position of his fingers there. Then Derek had noticed how often Stiles glanced at his reflection in the window, trying to make sure his signs were right. The following week, a full-length mirror appeared in the corner of the living room.
When Stiles noticed it, he turned to Derek with a surprised expression. Derek only shrugged, trying not to look as pleased as he felt. “It’ll help,” he said simply.
Stiles had signed, Thank you, with careful, deliberate precision. His smile lingered long after.
Every weekend after that, the mirror became part of the ritual. Stiles stood in front of it, mouthing words he could not hear, hands moving in graceful motions, eyes sharp and focused. Sometimes, when he got something wrong, he would frown and shake his head at himself, mumbling curses under his breath.
And Derek… tried to work. He really did. But it was hard to focus when Stiles was there, lips pressed together in concentration, forehead slightly creased, hands moving through the air like they were telling secrets.
He typed a sentence. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again.
Erica would kill him if she saw his progress report.
“You’re so diligent,” he muttered softly, the corner of his mouth lifting without meaning to. His eyes followed Stiles’ reflection in the mirror. The younger man was completely absorbed in his practice, his movements slower now, smoother.
Derek leaned back in his chair, head tilted as he watched him.
Stiles was beautiful when he was focused. He always was, but in moments like this, it hit Derek harder. The faint scar that curved from his temple to his cheek caught the soft light, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked, the faint pink of his lips as he mouthed each word.
“You’re so cute,” Derek whispered under his breath, smiling at the sight. “It’s driving me crazy.”
He shook his head and forced his attention back to the blinking cursor on his laptop screen. He managed a few lines before the sound of pages flipping caught his ear.
By the time he looked up again, Stiles was on the couch, the mirror forgotten. He was holding one of Derek’s books, legs tucked under him, completely immersed in whatever he was reading this time.
It had become another part of their weekend routine. Stiles would practice, Derek would pretend to work, and before leaving, Stiles would always ask for another book from Derek’s collection.
Every time, Derek tried to talk him out of it. Every time, Stiles’ hopeful eyes won.
He drew the line at The Sculptor’s Desire and Velvet and Claws, though. Those were off-limits. There were things in those books that Derek wasn’t ready for Stiles to know he had written.
But Stiles was persistent, and Derek was weak.
So, each weekend ended with Stiles leaving Derek’s apartment, a new book tucked under his arm and a smile that made Derek forget all about his looming deadlines.
When the door closed behind him, the loft always felt too quiet. Too still.
And Derek always found himself counting down the days until Saturday came again.
One Sunday afternoon rolled by.
The world outside slowed down, sunlight spilling gently through the curtains of Derek’s loft. The air smelled faintly of coffee and paper and something distinctly Stiles—soap and clean laundry and the faintest trace of ink from his ever-present notebook.
Today was no different, except for the spark in Stiles’ eyes when he turned to Derek and carefully shaped his hands in the air.
De… Rek… Hale.
His movements were deliberate, hesitant but proud. His tongue peeked out slightly as he concentrated, and when he finished, he looked at Derek expectantly, like a student waiting for approval from a favorite teacher.
“Oh! Amazing!” Derek said, clapping once before he could stop himself. The sound startled both of them, but Stiles’ blush came immediately after. His lips curved, shy but pleased, his fingers fidgeting in front of him.
Derek chuckled softly and grabbed the notepad that sat permanently on the coffee table. He scribbled a quick question and slid it toward Stiles.
What about your own name?
Stiles frowned at the paper for a second, then turned sharply toward his thick white dictionary that sat open near the mirror. Derek watched as he flipped through the pages, his brows knitted together in concentration.
When Stiles finally found what he was looking for, he stood in front of the tall mirror, his reflection serious and focused. He lifted his hands and began to practice the movements for Stiles.
It was adorable. Painfully so.
From his spot on the couch, Derek rested his chin on his hand, leaning into the armrest as he watched the younger man repeat the sign over and over. His lips were pressed into a thin line of focus. Every mistake made his nose scrunch up, and every success earned himself a small satisfied nod.
“What am I going to do with you, Stiles?” Derek murmured to himself, unable to hold back the fond smile tugging at his mouth. His voice came out low, warm, almost reverent.
“I like that you’re so stubborn,” he continued, watching as Stiles tried the movement again, slower this time, smoother. “And so damn diligent.”
Stiles looked at the mirror in front of him. He noticed that Derek was talking about something. He just watched the man’s face from the mirror.
Derek sighed softly. His chest felt tight, and he wasn’t sure if it was from admiration or fear.
“I also like how you’ve become so attached,” he said quietly, his voice catching slightly. “And dependent on someone as tainted as me.”
His fingers flexed against his jaw, restless. Stiles’ reflection was still turned toward him, still watching silently.
“You’re just so fucking cute,” Derek whispered, “that I can’t help falling in love with you.”
The words hung in the air, unreturned but heavy. He hadn’t meant to say them aloud, but there they were, spilling out before he could stop them. Confession falling on deaf ears.
And that was when Stiles suddenly stood up. The reflection of his face in the mirror was flushed, eyes wide, and for a second Derek froze, his breath caught in his throat. The silence stretched. Then Stiles reached for his notebook, scribbled quickly, and turned it to Derek.
I have something to do… so I’m going home.
His handwriting was rushed, uneven.
Before Derek could stand or speak, Stiles lifted his hands and repeated the same message in sign, his movements a little stiff. His cheeks were still bright red.
Derek blinked, heart hammering. He forced his hand to move, to reply in sign. Oh. Okay.
He added aloud, softly, “Be careful.”
Stiles gave a quick nod and turned away before Derek could say anything else. His steps were hurried as he crossed the room, and the sound of the door closing echoed like a final punctuation mark.
Derek sat there for a long time afterward, staring at the mirror that still reflected both their shapes—his own, still seated, and the ghost of Stiles’ fading presence in his loft.
He had wanted to keep his feelings quiet. Safe. Hidden behind his walls. But now they were out there, hanging between them. And Stiles couldn't even hear a single word of his confession.
Notes:
Thank you for anyone that's reading this.
Chapter 6
Notes:
Hello, guys! Thank you for anyone that's reading this and leaving nice comments! :3 I'm back with the update! I'm posting earlier, because I'm working late tomorrow! Without further ado, here's Chapter 7.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A week had passed, and Stiles still couldn’t shake the memory.
It played in his head every night when he tried to sleep, every morning when he brushed his teeth, every quiet second in between when his mind refused to be silent.
He saw it so clearly, like it was burned into him. Derek sitting there on the couch, chin resting on his hand, lips moving as his eyes softened. He had seen it. He knew he had seen it.
"You’re just so fucking cute that I can’t help falling in love with you."
The words had formed perfectly, slow enough that anyone with even a beginner’s grasp of lip reading could understand. And Stiles wasn’t a beginner anymore. His instructor at D.I.L.F. had told him several times that he was talented at it, that he could read lips better than most people who had been practicing for months.
So how could he have gotten it wrong?
That question had followed him like a shadow. It taunted him when he was sitting in his sign language class, when his classmates smiled and waved and signed simple greetings. It echoed when he tried to sleep, curling in his chest until it became a dull ache.
He had walked out of Derek’s apartment that day like the floor was unsteady beneath his feet. The sun had been too bright, almost cruel. He remembered gripping his cane too tightly, the heat of the metal handle biting into his palm.
He had stopped halfway down the street, heart pounding against his ribs. The echo of those words filled him with something electric and terrifying. It couldn’t be real. Derek wasn’t like that. Derek wasn’t…
He had hit the pavement with his cane, a sharp, angry thud that made several strangers turn. Their mouths moved with confusion. He caught only fragments of what they were saying, but he didn’t need to hear it to understand. Probably along the line of 'what’s wrong with him'.
He didn’t respond. He couldn’t.
He looked up to the sky and tried to breathe, but it felt like his chest was too small for his heart. He shook his head and muttered under his breath, though no sound reached his ears.
"That’s impossible," he whispered to no one.
Derek was straight. He had to be. Stiles had never seen him look at anyone that way in the small timeframe they had been acquainted, but that didn’t mean anything. And Derek had extensive collection of spicy novels written specificly for straight pairing.
It had to be a mistake. Besides, Derek Hale was hot, kind, thoughtful, and completely out of his league.
Maybe Derek had been talking to himself about one of his novels again. He did that sometimes when he was revising or brainstorming. Maybe it was a line from his manuscript, one of those romantic confessions that had nothing to do with him. Writers got lost in their stories all the time, after all.
That had to be it.
It was easier to believe that than to believe Derek might actually have meant it.
Then, a week later, Stiles found himself standing in front of Derek’s apartment again.
He held a paper bag filled with donuts. His fingers were sticky from the glaze that had leaked through the box, and the smell of sugar clung to his clothes. He hadn’t meant to buy them at first, but he wanted to bring something. Something that might make things feel normal again.
He shifted his weight nervously and stared at the door. He had almost turned around twice on the way there.
Just be normal, he mouthed to himself, exaggerating the words like he was practicing lip reading on his own reflection. Don’t make it weird.
He pressed the bell.
A moment later, the door opened slightly. Derek stood there, hair messy and damp, wearing a white tank top and dark sweatpants. His shoulders looked broader than usual, the soft lighting behind him casting shadows against his arms.
Stiles swallowed hard.
Derek smiled faintly, but there was a kind of distracted look in his eyes. He raised his hand and signed, Sorry. I’m in the middle of something. Then he passed a small note to Stiles.
I’m so bound up in work right now. I’ll probably be keeping myself indoors for a week or so.
The words made Stiles’s chest sink.
He looked up and forced a small smile, trying not to show the disappointment on his face. He signed back, It’s okay, I understand.
Then he held out the paper bag. Here, he signed. Something to eat. Don’t skip meals.
“Hmm?” he murmured. Derek’s smile softened, and he reached out to take it.
He was sure Derek signed a thank you, but Stiles’s attention was already drifting past him. Just behind Derek’s leg, by the doorframe, he caught sight of something that made his stomach drop.
A pair of high-heeled shoes sat neatly by the entrance.
Black, glossy, unmistakably feminine.
He stared at them a second too long. His brain went blank.
"Oh," he mouthed before catching himself.
Derek looked back at him, eyebrows raised slightly, unaware of where Stiles’s gaze had gone. “Thank you,” Stiles read his lips, and Derek signed a thank you for the second time.
Stiles smiled. It felt heavy on his face. He nodded once and lifted a hand in a small wave. Then he turned and walked down the hall, forcing his steps to stay even.
When he finally reached the elevator, his shoulders slumped.
'You idiot,' he mentally say to himself.
The words were bitter on his mind.
He pressed the button and waited. The silence stretched, thick and painful.
He had spent an entire week worrying, dissecting every detail, convincing himself that maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t imagined it. That maybe Derek had actually meant it.
And now? Now he had proof that he was wrong.
There was a woman inside his apartment, probably recreating those scenes from Derek's novel Stiles had fantasized about with his and Derek's face as the characters.
He almost laughed, but it came out as a silent exhale that trembled. He felt stupid. Stupid for misreading, stupid for hoping, stupid for thinking that someone like Derek Hale could ever want someone like him.
He was half-blind in one eye and deaf from the accident, and he had an ugly scar marking him for life from the unfairness of life.
Why would anyone look at that and see something worth loving?
Outside, the afternoon light was fading from dark clouds threatening to rain. The streets were busier than usual. Stiles didn’t even bother to take out his cane this time. He just walked.
People bumped into him, their mouths moving in annoyance. He could read some of it, but most of it blurred together. He was too tired to care.
By the time he reached the quieter street near the donut shop where he’d bought the donuts earlier, his legs ached. He stopped by the window, catching sight of his reflection in the glass.
The scar on his cheek was harsh under the light — a jagged reminder of everything he’d lost. It was the kind of mark that made people pause for just a second too long before pretending they hadn’t noticed. He lifted his hand and brushed his fingers over it, tracing the uneven line with a touch that felt both tender and angry. His throat tightened, and his eyes burned.
For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at himself. He looked small. Sad. Pathetic.
The thoughts started spinning, faster than he could stop them. How stupid am I? he thought. Stupid for misreading. Stupid for hoping. Stupid for being like this. He hated how his chest hurt, how he couldn’t control the way it kept breaking open. And beneath it all, the cruelest thought of all — why does it have to be me? Why do I need a fucking cane just so people won’t curse when I bump into them? Why do I have this fucking scar?
He pressed his lips together, but it was no use. The tears came anyway — hot, silent, relentless. A moment later, the sky opened, and rain began to pour. The drops hit his skin, cool and steady, mixing with the tears until he couldn’t tell them apart.
So he walked home through the downpour, head bowed, telling himself it was only the rain running down his face, and not the soundless ache he couldn’t hide.
The door clicked shut behind Stiles, and Derek leaned his forehead against it, letting out a heavy sigh. His pulse was still racing.
“That was close,” he muttered under his breath. “Way too close.”
Before he could even breathe, a sharp voice called from down the hallway.
“Derek! Come here quickly!”
He winced. “Erica, indoor voice!” Isaac’s muffled complaint followed immediately after, accompanied by the faint clatter of something dropping.
“I’m coming!” Derek shouted back, straightening himself and trying to wipe the worry from his face. He ran a hand through his hair, forcing his expression into something neutral. They can’t find out about him. Not yet.
When he stepped into the living area, Erica was standing with her hands on her hips while Isaac was hunched over the couch, laptop open and a scowl on his face.
“Who was that?” Erica asked, sharp as ever.
Derek lifted the paper bag in his hand like a shield. “Uh… DoorDash.”
Her eyes narrowed. “DoorDash? When did you even—” she leaned closer and peered at the bag— “wait, are these donuts? Is this a bribe?”
“It’s not—” Derek started, but Isaac had already swooped in like a hawk.
“Oh my God,” Isaac gasped, opening the bag. “Erica, this is the donut shop I told you about! The one with the strawberry-jam center and the powdered sugar—holy hell.”
Erica rolled her eyes. “Stop being so cheap, Isaac.”
But Isaac was already chewing, powdered sugar smeared across his mouth and cheeks. “This is so good,” he mumbled, words barely decipherable through the mouthful.
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we focus?”
Erica folded her arms. “I am focused. On the fact that you still owe me an explanation, Derek Hale.”
He groaned. “What exactly do you want me to explain? I sent the wrong file. That’s it.”
Isaac raised a hand, still munching. “Actually, I’m with Derek on this one. It’s a non-issue.”
“Thank you,” Derek said quickly.
Erica turned to glare at Isaac. “You know damn well why it’s an issue, genius. You’re the one who forwarded the file to me in the first place.”
Derek’s glare snapped toward Isaac, who froze mid-bite. When Isaac reached for another donut, Derek smacked his hand away.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“For forwarding my draft.”
Isaac’s glare turned petulant. “You know what? I changed my mind. It is an issue. You’re lucky I caught it before we sent it to the artist.”
Erica nodded, lips twitching in irritation. “Exactly. Derek, I just need to hear why you’d make such a ridiculous mistake on an important project. You’ve been on fire lately—three ongoing projects, all of them solid. But then suddenly, the highlight smut scene for the comic becomes… a slash scene?”
Derek opened his mouth. Closed it again. The heat in his neck spread upward.
Erica raised a brow. “I mean, the female lead is kinda tomboyish, sure, but that doesn’t explain how an unintroduced male character suddenly shows up in bed with the protagonist.”
Isaac perked up. “Wait, that was unintentional? Because I thought it was bold. Very… art-house.”
“Shut up, Isaac.”
Derek sighed. “It’s because I wrote it in the wrong file. The continuation for the original smut was right after that section. I just didn’t notice.”
Erica blinked. “You wrote it in the wrong file? What does that even mean?”
“It means,” Derek said slowly, “it was for another project.”
The room fell silent.
Erica tilted her head. “Wait. You mean the private project? The one that’s had you visiting that deaf institution every week?”
Derek rubbed the back of his neck. “…Yeah.”
Technically true. Mostly. Though Derek would never told Erica he was enrolled in their courses and attended five days a week like a diligent student.
Erica’s eyes gleamed like she’d just sniffed gossip. “Okay, first question—since when are you writing slash?”
“I’m trying something new,” Derek replied. “You’re always telling me to expand, remember? Queer media, bigger demand, better margins.”
Erica raised both brows. “Sure, but that doesn’t excuse you slipping it into the wrong project.”
“I didn’t slip anything in,” Derek said, exasperated. “I opened the wrong file and wrote there. Honest mistake.”
“Mm-hmm.” Erica crossed her arms. “Second question. This Stiles name…”
Derek froze.
“...That’s not based on a real person, right?” Erica continued. “Because unless they’ve signed an NDA, we’re not doing another Author Gets Sued for Using Ex’s Name headline.”
Isaac snorted. “Come on, Erica. That’s a stupid question. Even I know better not to use real people's name in my works, and Derek’s practically ancient in publishing years."
“Thanks,” Derek said flatly.
"No worries, dude. Besides, what kind of name is a Stiles? I do hope you change it, cause it sounds weird," Isaac suggested.
“It’s just a working name,” Derek added quickly. “Early stage. Nothing’s finalized. I just needed to write something to get the feel right. It’s barely a draft.”
Erica leaned back on the counter, studying him. “Huh.”
Isaac frowned. “That’s actually kind of annoying.”
Derek blinked. “What?”
“It’s like humble-bragging,” Isaac said, pointing at him with a donut. “You call it a draft, but it’s stupidly good.”
Erica nodded. “Yeah, I’ll give him that. The scene was… raw. Not polished. Like reading someone’s thoughts.”
Derek’s stomach twisted. Because it was, he thought grimly. He’d written that scene after watching Stiles that day, his fingers moving on autopilot, his mind too full of things he wasn’t supposed to feel.
He forced a smirk. “Well, my smut’s always vivid. That’s not new.”
Isaac shook his head. “No, dude, this wasn’t just vivid. It was emotional. Like, heartbreak and yearning emotional.”
“Probably because it’s queer,” Derek muttered. “You know, forbidden love clichés, that sort of thing.”
Erica gave him a look that saw right through him. “No, no. It read like a daydream.”
For a split second, Derek’s heart stopped.
“Anyway,” Erica went on, thankfully missing the way his jaw tensed, “I’m not mad about you writing queer stuff, but we need to be careful. A total genre shift can backfire. Maybe we’ll set it up under a pen name like we did for Isaac.”
“Don’t get your hopes up, E.” Derek picked up a donut and bit into it, mostly just to keep his mouth busy. The powdered sugar clung to his fingers, and he brushed it off absently. “If I don’t feel it, I’ll probably drop it midway.”
Erica leaned back against the kitchen counter with a smug look that said she didn’t believe a word of it. “Sure, keep telling yourself that. But for the record, it already smells like a best-seller. Just don’t write it on your other projects again.”
Isaac groaned, throwing his hands up. “I think he got the message, Erica. You’ve repeated it, like, twelve times already. Now, can we please focus on the fact that we have an interviewer coming in an hour?”
He turned toward Derek, gesturing dramatically with his half-eaten donut. “Hurry the hell up, man. Take a shower. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”
“Four days,” Derek corrected without missing a beat. He tossed the empty donut wrapper into the trash. “And that’s because of the deadline you pushed on me.”
Isaac looked unbothered. “Deadlines keep you sharp.”
Erica grinned. “Oh, come on, Der-bear, it’s for your own good. The sooner we wrap that project, the sooner you get more time for this new one.”
Derek gave her a flat look. “Der-bear?”
“Don’t fight it,” she said sweetly. “I’m your manager. I get naming rights.”
Isaac snorted through a mouthful of sugar. “But don't use it for his new pen name, it should be something mysterious. And make sure it's a man's name,” he said, bits of donut threatening to fly. “People love a mysterious male slash writer. Feels… romantic.”
Derek glared at him. “Shut up, Isaac.”
Isaac just grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m serious. Something like ‘Leif Armitage’ or ‘Casian Drehl’. Ooh, what about—”
“Isaac.” Derek’s tone cut him off. There wasn’t any real anger in it, though. Just exhaustion, and a quiet edge of something else he couldn’t name.
The room fell into an easy rhythm again—the hum of Erica typing on her tablet, Isaac licking sugar from his fingers while scrolling through his phone, Derek washing his hands at the sink. The smell of warm coffee and fried dough hung in the air.
Then a sharp flash of lightning lit up the living room, followed by a thunderclap so loud that Isaac flinched and almost dropped his donut.
“Holy shit,” Isaac muttered, clutching his chest. “Warn a guy!”
Erica didn’t even look up. “Complain to the sky, not me.”
Derek turned toward the window. The rain had started suddenly, heavy and fast, streaking down the glass in blurred silver lines. He could barely see the city street below. People were running for shelter, pulling up jackets or covering their heads with bags.
His chest tightened, just a little.
Stiles.
He hoped Stiles had brought an umbrella. But he never remembered things like that. Derek could picture him now, squinting up at the downpour with that stubborn frown, pretending it didn’t bother him as he got soaked to the bone.
He swallowed, pushing the thought away. “I’ll take that shower,” he muttered, but his gaze lingered on the window for a moment longer. The storm churned across the city, heavy and unrelenting. Derek tried not to think about Stiles out in that mess—but he hoped, quietly and fiercely, that he’d made it home dry and safe.
Notes:
I don't know if anyone's reading this, but since it's November, I'm working on a Christmas fic, but I don't know what's the ideal time to post that. Hahaha
Kudos and comments are very appreciated! Do tell me your thoughts! <3
Chapter 7
Notes:
Hi! I'm back with a new chapter!
Okay, before we start, I need you to take your time to note the change in Ratings and the addition of newer tags in this story, because like any other works by me, there WILL be explicit sex scene. Because let's be real, that's why I write in the first place. This chapter contains explicit sex scene between two consenting adults. Happy Reading!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It had been a week since he last visited Derek’s loft. Seven full days since Derek had stood behind the half-open door, hair messy, shirt rumpled, muttering that he was busy. Seven days since Stiles had noticed those heels by the door, shiny black and obviously not Derek’s size.
He told himself he didn’t care.
He told himself that he only missed Derek’s books — the stories, the words, the way Derek’s worlds made sense even when his own didn’t. He told himself that was the reason he found his feet moving toward the apartment complex again, that it wasn’t about him.
But it was a lie.
He knew it the moment he stopped halfway down the street, clutching his cane a little too tightly. The memory of Derek’s soft smile burned behind his eyelids. The way he said Come on in with his hands, the gentle curve of his mouth when he was proud of Stiles for learning something new. It all came flooding back, warm and suffocating.
He chickened out.
He couldn’t bring himself to press the elevator button yet. Instead, he ended up at the small park nearby, sitting on the same bench where he and Derek had first tried to hold a conversation without words. The air smelled like wet leaves and city dust. The wood of the bench was cool against his palms.
Stiles twirled his cane between his fingers, watching it glint in the afternoon light. His chest felt tight. What was he even depressed about?
Was it because Derek hadn’t told him he had a girlfriend? That seemed petty. Derek didn’t owe him explanations.
Or maybe it was because Derek had chosen to spend his time with her instead of him. That sounded worse, because Stiles wasn’t supposed to care that much.
Or maybe it was because of that stupid moment in front of the mirror. Because of those words he thought he saw Derek say.
I can’t help falling in love with you.
His stomach twisted.
He had spent days trying to convince himself he had misread it. He was new to lip reading, after all. Maybe Derek had said something completely different. Maybe he had been quoting a line for one of his novels. Derek was a writer. He was expressive. He could have been talking to himself. He repeated the same reasons he'd told himself for the past week.
Stiles covered his face with both hands, letting out a soundless groan.
I’m such an idiot.
The wind picked up, tugging at his flannel until the fabric rippled against his body, carrying a chill that sank deep into his bones. Stiles shivered, fumbling with the buttons until the shirt was fastened and worn properly, turning it from a loose outer layer into a makeshift barrier against the cold. He unrolled his sleeves, tugging them down to cover his wrists. Around him, the trees whispered and bent under the breeze, their leaves rustling like a quiet warning. When he finally looked up, the sky had dimmed; clouds had gathered thick and low, painting everything beneath them in shades of dull gray.
Perfect. It's going to rain soon.
He told himself that he needed to find shelter. That it made sense to go somewhere warm. Somewhere like Derek's loft. That it wasn’t about Derek. That it was just practical.
He stood, gripping his cane a little tighter. His heart, however, had its own logic.
By the time he reached the entrance of the familiar apartment complex, the first drops had started to fall, cold and sharp against the concrete. He wasn’t sure if it was the gentle sight of light showers or nerves making his pulse race like that.
The elevator ride stretched on like a scene caught in slow motion. The air was thick with the faint scent of detergent and old takeout, clinging to the metal walls as the floor numbers blinked past, one by one. Stiles stood perfectly still, watching his reflection waver on the polished door. His hair was damp, some dark strands clumping from the drizzle outside; his flannel, now buttoned up, hung too loose on his frame, swallowing his shape. His eyes wide and uncertain. He looked smaller than he felt, and he hated the flicker of hope still lingering in his expression.
When the elevator doors opened, the hallway stretched before him, quiet and dim, lined with the soft hum of distant light shower. Each step he took made his heart thud louder in his chest.
Finally, he stood in front of Derek’s door. The numbers on the plate gleamed faintly in the low light.
He hesitated.
What if the girlfriend was still there? What if Derek was annoyed by his visit? What if Derek didn’t want to see him anymore?
Stiles pressed his free hand against his chest, trying to calm the fluttering there. He took a breath, deep and unsteady, and stared at the door handle.
He could still turn back.
He raised his hand, and pressed the bell. He waited, his heart knocking against his ribs in uneven beats. He found himself glancing down at the floor near the door — hoping, almost praying, that there were no women’s shoes on the other side this time.
The seconds dragged. The hallway light buzzed softly above him, painting everything in muted gold. His pulse quickened as he thought about leaving, maybe pretending he’d never even been here, when the door finally creaked open revealing Derek in the doorway.
“Stiles! Hey!" It was inaudible, but Stiles could read the words clearly.
For a second, Stiles forgot how to breathe.
Derek looked— well, it was the least amount of clothing Stiles had ever seen on him. A thin white tank top clung to his chest, and gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, the soft fabric tracing every line of muscle underneath. God, he looked good. Or at least he would have, if Stiles could stop noticing how exhausted he seemed beneath all that effortless appeal. His hair was a mess, sticking up in uneven tufts like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. Faint bruised shadows darkened the skin under his eyes, and a few days’ worth of stubble roughened his jaw. There was even a faint sheen of sweat along his collarbone, catching the light in a way that made Stiles’ throat go dry.
If Stiles hadn’t caught the slump in Derek’s shoulders and the red-rimmed eyes, he might’ve combusted right then and there.
“Thank God you’re not drenched,” Derek said, stepping aside. “It’s starting to pour harder out there. Come on in.”
Stiles hesitated. For a split second, he wondered if this was a bad idea — if Derek’s strained smile and tired face meant he was interrupting something important. But Derek’s hand gestured toward the open space, inviting, and Stiles forced his feet to move.
Inside, the loft was almost unrecognizable.
The place that had always looked like it came straight out of a minimalist magazine — all clean lines and muted colors — was now chaos. Books were scattered across the coffee table and floor, papers stacked in uneven piles, a half-empty mug of coffee sitting dangerously close to the edge of a counter. There was an open bag of chips beside a laptop, and a blanket draped over the couch in a way that screamed sleepless nights.
It was unsettling, seeing Derek Hale’s place like this. Derek, who once rearranged his bookshelf by height and color. Then again the first time he'd came here it was messy, too. Just nowhere near this.
Derek let out a small, sheepish huff, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, it’s really messy here. I was—” He stopped mid-sentence, realization flickering in his eyes. “Right. You can’t hear me.”
He sighed and started moving around, picking up the mess as if that could somehow undo the awkwardness. “I can clean this up quickly, just sit down somewhere, give me a sec,” he muttered to himself, searching the table. “Notebook— where’s my notebook?”
Stiles almost smiled. The notebook was literally hanging from his own neck, right where it always was. But Derek looked too distracted to notice, too caught up in trying to remember things as they were.
Stiles’s gaze drifted as Derek moved across the room. That was when he saw it — something on the floor in front of the couch.
A thick, bound stack of papers, edges frayed, a few pages sticking out at odd angles. The title page was slightly bent, and across the top corner, in Derek’s neat handwriting, was the header: Project Draft – Confidential.
Stiles blinked, his curiosity instantly piqued. He’d seen Derek working before — hunched over his laptop with that look of absolute focus, glasses sometimes sliding down his nose, fingers tapping the keys in a rhythm that almost sounded like thought itself — but he had never actually seen the result. The real thing. Derek’s work in its raw, physical form.
His mind, traitorous as ever, wondered if Derek had written something dirty again. Maybe another one of those infamous steamy scenes that had made Stiles blush to his ears the first time he read one. The idea made his pulse jump.
Curiosity tugged harder at him, and before he could talk himself out of it, Stiles crouched down and reached for the manuscript. The pages were cool beneath his fingertips, textured with the faint grit of printed ink. The paper gave slightly under his touch, the weight of it unmistakable — the kind of weight born from too many late nights and the relentless precision of a perfectionist.
He lifted the manuscript and began flipping through it carefully, scanning a few pages, eyes darting over the text. His heartbeat quickened for no reason he could name. Section subtitles flashed past him, followed by neatly typed paragraphs that had been mercilessly attacked by Derek’s pen. Across the printed text, Derek’s handwriting ran wild, sharp and deliberate, curling around sentences with frustrated loops and bold slashes. Whole sections were crossed out. Arrows curved through the margins, connecting thoughts. Small notes littered the sides: too much, rewrite for clarity, not raw enough.
It was chaos, but it was a beautiful kind of chaos — deliberate, intimate.
Stiles traced one of the notes with his thumb, the ink raised ever so slightly from the pressure of Derek’s pen. The lines were darker in places, pressed deep into the page, as if Derek had been too caught up in whatever emotion he was trying to trap in words. There was something achingly personal about it. Not just a story, but a confession.
He wondered, quietly, if Derek knew how much of himself he left behind in these pages.
When Stiles flipped toward the latter section of the manuscript, a bold line at the top of a page caught his eye. Climax Scene 1.
He froze. Then slowly, his spine straightened.
Oh God, he thought. Could this be one of those scenes?
Curiosity prickled at him, even as his better judgment screamed to stop. But of course, his fingers betrayed him. He leaned closer, eyes darting across the words.
… as he hid the large scar on his face …
… kissing the scar was softly …
Then he licked the skin ... "Ahh," a soft sound escaped him …
… the area around his ear flushed red.
He licked the deaf ear. "Ahh… Ahhh… nnn…"
…
…
And the sweet liquid overflowed as he added the number of fingers in.
He sucked the heat from his skin, the air thick and trembling.
A loud whimper. Slowly, he slid into—
Stiles’s breath hitched. His eyes went wide, scanning the words again, convinced he had read them wrong. But no. The words were exactly what they looked like.
And then realization hit him. Hard.
The scar. The ear. The deaf ear.
His heart stumbled. The world seemed to narrow around him, the soundless hum of his own pulse echoing in his head.
He pulled the manuscript closer, squinting as though that would somehow make it less real, less like him.
There was no mistaking it.
It was him.
Every detail, every line.
And the thought of Derek writing this—writing him—in a scene so… explicit made his skin burn. His pulse pounded in his throat, in his fingertips.
He didn’t even notice Derek speaking until the movement of his hands caught the edge of his vision.
“Would you care to wait for a while over there?” Derek was saying, signing as he spoke, his voice calm. But when he looked up, Stiles wasn’t watching. His eyes were glued to the page he was reading, lips parted, face blooming red.
Derek frowned, confused, then followed Stiles’s line of sight.
And froze.
"Oh, hell."
That was his manuscript. Not just any draft—the draft. His personal project. The one he hadn’t meant to print. The one that should have stayed buried in the privacy of his laptop.
Derek groaned under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. He stepped forward quickly, crouching in front of Stiles, and gently tugged the stack of papers from Stiles' trembling hands.
Stiles startled like he’d been caught stealing, eyes wide, color rising up his neck. His fingers hovered midair, uncertain, and then fell uselessly into his lap.
Derek’s chest tightened. Stiles looked so flustered he could practically feel the heat radiating from him.
“Hey,” he said softly, more a murmur than a word.
“You… weren’t supposed to read that,” Derek muttered and signed the words to Stiles.
Stiles blinked up at him, his lashes long, his face still impossibly red. He tried to sign something—sorry maybe—but his hands faltered halfway, fingers fumbling with nervousness.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The manuscript hung limply between Derek’s hands, still warm from Stiles’s touch.
And Derek, traitor that he was, found himself thinking about how it might feel if that scene weren’t fiction.
He exhaled slowly, forcing the thought away, folding the pages against his chest. “I should probably revise this,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone. Because how did he missed to add Stiles' long lashes looking up at him in the description.
He caught the brief flicker of confusion in Stiles’s eyes, and something else too—something fragile and searching that made Derek want to look anywhere but at him.
Later. He’d fix the scene later.
Right now, he needed to survive this.
“I’m sorry,” Derek said, his voice low as he signed the same words with careful hands.
Stiles swallowed. “Um,” he managed, barely a sound, his tongue heavy in his mouth.
Derek looked uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but at Stiles. “Actually, I… um… this was…” He trailed off, gesturing weakly toward the manuscript he still held, the pages now a little crumpled from the tension between them.
Stiles’s voice came out before he could stop it. That story… He pointed at the manuscript. Was that me? His fingers shaped the question hesitantly in sign language, clumsy but clear.
For a heartbeat, Derek didn’t respond. He just stared, jaw tightening, throat working. Then, silently, he reached forward and grabbed the small notebook that hung half off Stiles’s neck. Stiles froze, pulse stuttering as Derek’s fingers brushed against the side of his collarbone—barely there, but enough to make his breath catch.
Derek turned away slightly, scribbling something quickly, the tension visible in the slope of his shoulders. His handwriting pressed deep into the page, every letter deliberate.
Stiles stood motionless, every second stretching too long. He could hear the faint scrape of the pen, the distant patter of rain outside the window, the uneven rhythm of his own breathing.
Then Derek turned back, eyes unreadable, and handed him the notebook.
The words hit him like a punch to the chest.
I’m sorry. No matter how hard I try, my female lead always becomes you.
Stiles blinked, his throat tightening. His first instinct was to laugh it off, to make some dumb joke, but the air between them was too still, too fragile. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, blooming across his cheeks until his entire face burned. His heart was a wild, stuttering thing, every beat loud and ridiculous.
He looked up. Derek was still watching him.
Without breaking eye contact, Derek slowly lifted a hand to his chest, then pointed toward Stiles’s. His movements were steady, careful, like he wanted every motion to be understood. Then his hand shifted, forming a Y shape—pinky and thumb extended—and moved forward slightly.
And even though Stiles couldn't hear Derek barely whispering the words aloud, Stiles could see them clearly on his lips.
I like you.
For a moment, Stiles forgot how to breathe. Everything in him went still—the tinnitus in his ears, the heat in his skin, even the nervous buzz that usually kept him from standing still too long. He just stared, eyes wide, trying to make sense of what had just happened.
Then Derek looked away, exhaling quietly, as if the weight of the moment had grown too heavy. He turned, almost abruptly, and crossed the room. He watched Derek's barefeet on walked further away and sank into the sofa across him.
Stiles stood there, still holding the notebook, still reeling.
From the corner of his eye, Stiles saw Derek’s lips begin to move again. He focused, trying to read them.
"It’s easy for me to get too engrossed in my work," Derek said. Stiles followed the shape of the words, the way Derek’s mouth tightened on work. His expression softened, then fell. "I’m used to that already. But..."
Derek sighed, his shoulders rising and falling before he set the manuscript down on the coffee table. Stiles could see the tension in his movements, the heaviness of someone carrying too much inside. Derek’s fingers lingered on the edge of the stack as if reluctant to let it go.
His lips moved again, slower this time. Stiles caught the words.
"This is going to be difficult to take in," he said, before dropping his eyes, mouth tightening into a grim line. "You must really hate me now. I guess this is... reaping what I sowed," he continued.
Stiles blinked. The words didn’t sit right in his chest. Hate him? Why would he hate him? Confusion creased his forehead as he studied Derek’s face, trying to understand the quiet storm behind his eyes.
Derek looked lost in thought, his gaze distant. The soft flicker of light from the rain outside painted faint shadows along his jaw. He seemed far away until the sofa dipped beside him.
Derek turned, startled, and found Stiles sitting close. Not too close, but enough for their knees to almost touch. Stiles stared straight ahead at first, pretending not to notice Derek watching him. His expression was guarded, but there was a faint stubbornness in the way his mouth set, that same look he always wore when he was trying not to care too much.
Then Stiles turned his head slightly and signed, I knew. His hand pressed briefly against his chest before lifting into the air.
Derek frowned. "What do you mean you knew?" His brows pulled together. "How... how much do you know?"
Stiles could tell from the way Derek’s mouth moved that he was flustered. His words were spilling faster, and then he stopped himself, shutting his mouth with an exasperated look. He pressed his fingers to his temples, muttering something Stiles couldn’t catch before snatching the notebook off the table.
The scratch of the pen against paper was quick, frustrated. When Derek finished writing, he turned the notebook around and pushed it toward Stiles.
Stiles leaned in, eyes scanning the words. Derek’s handwriting was rushed, but clear.
What do you mean you knew? How much do you know?
He hesitated, glancing up. Derek was watching him, his brow slightly furrowed, the kind of look that made it impossible to breathe properly. Stiles could feel his heartbeat in his throat, a pulse that refused to settle. He wanted to answer, to explain, but everything inside him tangled together in one messy knot of embarrassment, curiosity, and something warmer that he refused to name.
He reached for the pen. Their fingers brushed, just barely, but it was enough to send a current up Stiles’s arm. He could feel it all the way to his chest. He swallowed hard and focused on the page, hoping Derek didn’t notice the flush creeping up his neck.
He stared at the notebook for a long time, the unanswered question sitting heavy between them. Instead of replying, he began to write his own question, the tip of the pen pressing too hard into the paper. When he was done, he turned the notebook and held it out to Derek with a serious expression.
Don’t you have a girlfriend?
Derek’s reaction was immediate. His head shook quickly, a faint crease appearing between his brows.
Stiles looked unconvinced. He took the notebook back, scrawling something again, his movements sharper this time.
I saw her shoes last time I came here.
Derek read it, then gave a quiet huff, reaching for the pen. His handwriting came slower now, more deliberate.
That would be Erica's. She’s my manager. And no, we’re not dating.
Stiles blinked, then nodded once, his face unreadable. The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease a little, though his hand still hovered near the notebook as if afraid to let go of it.
After a moment, he took it again, his expression softer now. Derek waited, watching the curve of his fingers as he wrote. There was a flicker of nervousness in the way Stiles’s pen hesitated before touching the paper, the brief pause of someone bracing for rejection.
When he finished, he turned the notebook around again.
I’m a dude, you know. I thought you're straight.
Derek’s lips curved into a faint smile. He raised his hands slowly, signing carefully, each movement deliberate so Stiles could see. His fingers brushed his chest, then pointed outward toward Stiles as he signed, You know it’s legal now, right?
It took Stiles a moment to process the sign, and when he did, his ears burned. He grabbed the notebook again, scribbling so fast the pen nearly slipped from his fingers.
I have a big scar across the side of my face, and I’m deaf. Doesn’t that bother you?
When Derek finished reading, he didn’t write anything back. He didn’t even reach for the pen. He just looked at Stiles, really looked, and Stiles almost wished he wouldn’t. Derek’s gaze was steady and deep, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes said too much.
The silence stretched. The rain outside had softened into a drizzle, faint streaks running down the window behind them.
Finally, Derek moved. He shifted closer, close enough that Stiles could feel the warmth of him. His mouth parted, and though Stiles couldn’t hear, he could read the faint movement of his lips. "Wait. Does this mean that… you like me too?"
Stiles froze. His instinct was to look away, and he did, his gaze darting toward the floor. His heart was hammering in his chest so hard it hurt.
But then he inhaled slowly, gathering the courage to turn back. He didn’t write this time. Instead, he lifted his hands.
His movements were hesitant at first, a little shaky, but clear. His fingers brushed against his own chest, lingering there for a heartbeat before extending outward toward Derek. His hand shaped the familiar motion, his thumb and pinky finger pointing, the gesture small and intimate. The sign Derek had gestured earlier. The sign for: I like you.
When he lowered his hand, the room felt heavier. He could see Derek’s breath catch, could see the way his eyes softened all over again, disbelief and something else flickering behind them.
Neither of them moved.
It didn’t take long for Derek to lose the last thread of restraint. His hand came up, calloused fingers cupping the sharp line of Stiles’s cheek. There was a beat of stillness — Derek’s eyes searching, asking — and then he leaned in, slow enough that Stiles had time to read the intention on his lips before feeling them against his own.
The kiss was tentative at first, a brush of warmth and nerves, and then it deepened, a pull that drew them closer until Stiles’s chest was pressed to Derek’s solid frame. Stiles’s breath hitched, and color bloomed high on his cheeks, a crimson that made Derek’s chest ache.
When Derek shifted forward, Stiles’s leg hitched awkwardly over Derek’s lap, unintentional but somehow perfect. Derek’s hand slid to the back of Stiles’s neck, thumb tracing the soft skin there, and his mouth opened just slightly — enough to capture Stiles’s lower lip and suck softly.
The sound Stiles made was quiet, breathy, but it hit Derek like a jolt. He pressed Stiles back against the couch, the kiss growing more eager, more desperate. Saliva glistened at the corner of their mouths, and neither seemed to care — it was messy and human and real.
When Derek finally pulled away, Stiles was panting, lips swollen, eyes unfocused. He gasped for air, chest heaving, before tugging Derek back down by the front of his white tanktop and meeting him halfway.
Derek chuckled against his mouth before surrendering, kissing him again, deeper this time. The weight of Derek’s body was solid, heavy, grounding — too much and not enough all at once.
Stiles made a muffled sound, half protest and half want, and pushed weakly at Derek’s chest until Derek realized what he was doing. He immediately drew back, the concern flashing across his face.
Stiles shook his head quickly, eyes still closed, breathing hard. He adjusted his position, legs shifting. Derek gently caught Stiles’s calves and helped, moving him until his thighs framed Derek’s hips. The proximity made Stiles’s breath stutter.
“I’m sorry,” Derek said softly, lips forming the words slowly so Stiles could read them. “You’re just—too cute. I couldn’t resist.”
Stiles frowned and flicked his fingers sharply. Idiot, he signed, but there was no real bite behind it. Derek smiled, relief flickering across his features.
He tilted his head, studying Stiles.
“But seriously,” he said after a pause, words slow, clear. “You said you knew? How’d you know I like you?”
Stiles blinked, cheeks flushing again. His hands moved hesitantly, signing back. Two weeks ago. You said something… about falling in love with me. I saw it in the mirror.
Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “You saw it? That doesn’t— Wait. You can read lips?” His eyes widened. “Hold on, you’re reading my lips right now. That’s… wow, that's embarrassing.”
Stiles ducked his head, smiling shyly. Sorry, he signed.
“That’s alright,” Derek murmured, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Too bad for you, though.”
Before Stiles could respond, Derek’s arms were around him again, pulling him close. Stiles gasped as Derek buried his face against his chest, breath hot through the fabric of his shirt. Then came the sensation of teeth — gentle, teasing — catching one of his buttons as Derek tried to undo it with his mouth.
Stiles’s body trembled, the vibration of laughter tangled with something else entirely. He shifted forward, trying to help, but then froze when he felt something press insistently against his thigh.
Derek stilled instantly, mortification flashing in his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbled against Stiles’s chest. “I was just… excited.”
He sat back a little, running a hand through his hair, the tips of his ears red. Then, with a low chuckle, he added, “And talking too much. God, I just—” His voice dropped, almost reverent. “I want to taste you, Stiles.”
The words made Stiles’s pulse jump. He watched Derek’s mouth form each syllable, his brain catching up half a second later. His breath came short, and his skin burned where Derek’s hands rested against his hips.
He could see the hunger in Derek’s eyes, but beneath it — that same careful patience, the way Derek always waited for him to look up, to see, to choose.
Derek’s voice softened. “May I?” he asked, holding Stiles’s gaze.
For a second, Stiles was still, heartbeat pounding below his ribcage. His eyes flicked between Derek’s lips and his eyes, reading both. Then he huffed a soundless laugh, shaking his head. Stiles thought it was a stupid question, because Derek already started anyway.
Derek raised an eyebrow, confusion flickering into a grin as Stiles took a deep breath and signed again: Okay.
That was all Derek needed. His smile was wide and unguarded as he leaned in again, closing the space between them.
The air in the loft had gone thick with heat, the city's distant hum irrelevant to the silent world Stiles inhabited. He didn't hear the rustle of fabric, but he felt it—the rough tug of Derek's hands at his waistband, the sudden coolness on his thighs as his jeans and boxers were stripped away with a practiced urgency that left him breathless. Derek was already bare-chested, his black t-shirt discarded somewhere in the shadows, and the sight of him—muscles cut in sharp relief by the lamplight—made Stiles' throat tighten.
Derek's fingers hooked under the hem of Stiles' own shirt, lifting it slowly, so slowly, his eyes never leaving Stiles' face for permission. The moment the cotton cleared his ribs, Derek's mouth was there, hot and open against his pale skin. Stiles arched into it, his hips seeking friction, and when his bare cock brushed the hard planes of Derek's stomach, the sensation was electric—wetness smearing across those perfect abs, his own precum a slick testament to how far gone he already was.
A grunt rattled through Stiles' chest when Derek's lips closed around his nipple, gentle at first, almost reverent. Then it shifted—Derek's tongue curling, teeth scraping, a filthy, deliberate rhythm that had Stiles threading his fingers through dark hair, pulling Derek closer, anchoring himself in the only way he could. His thighs trembled. His world narrowed to the wet heat of Derek's mouth and the agonizing slide of his cock against unyielding muscle.
Derek's mouth traveled upward, mapping every inch of Stiles' torso with worshipful precision. Each kiss was a word, a sentence, a paragraph of desire written in flesh. When he reached the column of Stiles' throat, the novelist's lips found his pulse point—sucking, tasting, claiming. Stiles' mouth fell open, a silent cry escaping, his cheeks burning crimson. He felt everything: the calloused drag of Derek's palms down his sides, the possessive grip on his hip, the way those hands seemed to memorize every tremor.
Derek pulled back just enough for Stiles to see his face. "Do you feel good?" he mouthed, enunciating carefully, his thumb brushing Stiles' swollen lower lip. "I'm going to fuck you."
Stiles nodded, overwhelmed, and instinctively turned his face into the pillow—old habit, reflexive shyness. But Derek's hand was immediate, fingers firm under his chin, guiding him back. His green eyes were dark, commanding.
"Don't turn away," Derek signed with his free hand, the movements sharp and clear before he touched his own lips. "Keep your eyes open. Look at me. Read my lips." He leaned in, breath ghosting across Stiles' cheek. "I need you to know how much I want you."
The kiss that followed was brief but searing, a promise. Then Derek was standing, pulling his sweatpants with a deliberate slowness that felt like performance art. He pushed them down just enough, and the bulge in his boxer-briefs was obscene, straining against the fabric. Stiles' gaze locked onto it, nerves fluttering in his stomach—a cocktail of anticipation and vulnerability. He wanted to close his eyes, to hide, but Derek's gaze caught his, held it with an intensity that brooked no disobedience.
Stiles sighed, a silent surrender.
Derek stripped the underwear away, and the sight of him—fully hard, thick and flushed against his belly—made Stiles' mouth dry with want and nerves. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm only he could feel. What if I can't—what if it's too much—
Derek caught his eye and smiled, a rare, soft thing that didn't match the hunger in his eyes. "It'll be okay," he mouthed, tracing the words in the air between them.
Stiles believed him. He had to.
Derek's writer's mind calculated, even now—pace, tension, the arc of pleasure. He couldn't wait, not anymore, not with Stiles laid out like this, fragile and trusting and his. But he refused to hurt him. He dropped to his knees beside the worn sofa, and Stiles felt the shift in weight, the warm hands on his thighs, spreading him open.
Stiles lay back, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. Derek's gaze felt physical, a touch that made his skin prickle and his cock leak against his stomach. He watched, fixated, as Derek brought two fingers to his own mouth, licking them with obscene thoroughness—tongue curling, lips shiny with saliva. Then those fingers were at his entrance, circling, pressing.
The first intrusion was pressure, then a burn. Stiles' body arched, a silent gasp shaping his lips. Derek's free hand splayed across his hip, holding him steady, a wordless stay still. He pushed deeper, twisting his wrist, and Stiles shuddered, his fingers clawing at the sofa cushions. The stretch was foreign, uncomfortable, but Derek's eyes never left his face, watching for the moment of panic, the signal to stop.
He added a second finger, scissoring them with maddening patience. The stretch became an ache, then something more. Derek's knuckles dragged against that spot inside him—there—and Stiles' world whited out. His back bowed, a strangled sound vibrating in his chest that he couldn't hear but felt in his bones. Derek did it again, a deliberate press, his fingers curling in a "come here" gesture that had Stiles thrashing, precum smearing a slick trail up his own belly.
The scissoring motion became rhythmic, insistent. Derek's fingers stretched and twisted, opening him up with the same meticulous attention he gave to crafting a sentence. He added a third finger, and the burn was back, deeper, a sweet agony that had Stiles' legs trembling. He couldn't keep his eyes open—slamming shut as Derek pumped his fingers, curling them, spreading them in a way that made Stiles feel impossibly full.
But Derek's voice cut through the haze. "Eyes on me," he said, but Stiles had his eyes shut tightly. So he tapped against Stiles' thigh, the touch grounding.
Stiles forced his eyes open, dazed. Watched Derek's mouth form words he couldn't ignore. "You're so tight," Derek mouthed, his own voice rough with restraint. "So perfect. I could write fucking poetry about the way you take my fingers."
He twisted his wrist again, scissoring wide, and Stiles' cock jerked, leaking clear across his stomach. His rim fluttered around Derek's fingers, clenching, desperate. He was ready—he'd been ready since the first kiss—but Derek was drawing this out, making it a story they'd both remember.
Derek withdrew his fingers with a slick, obscene sound that Stiles felt as a vibration against his thigh. The emptiness was immediate, a hollowing ache that had him clutching at empty air. Then Derek was looming over him again, bracketing him in with those powerful arms, a living cage of muscle and intent. "It's a little too early for this," Derek mouthed, his lips shaping the confession with almost boyish self-deprecation. His hand dropped between them, palming his own cock—thick and flushed an angry red, curving up toward his navel. He gave it a slow shake, a pointed look that said this is what you do to me. "But I can't wait anymore."
Stiles could only nod, dazed, and spread his thighs wider. His hole twitched, clenching around nothing, slick and desperate and terrified.
The kiss Derek gave him was brutal—deep and claiming, a brand. When they broke apart, Derek's cock was already pressing against his entrance, hot and impossibly big. So much bigger than Stiles. Stiles' breath hitched. This was it. The thing he'd fantasized about and feared in equal measure. He'd always imagined Derek to be big, but the real thing was much more intimidating. He'd anticipated that it'd definitely hurt. But feeling that blunt head split him open was another matter entirely.
He clenched his fists, panic sparking white-hot in his chest. Derek pushed forward.
The stretch was catastrophic. A burning, tearing pressure that had Stiles' back arching off the sofa, mouth open in a silent scream. Derek was only halfway inside, but Stiles felt impaled, his rim stretched to the limit around that thick girth. He could see the strain in Derek's jaw, the green eyes fixed on his face, watching.
Stiles' hands flew up, signing frantically. I can't take it anymore! His forearms formed the big X between them, then shoved hard against Derek's chest, trying to create space, any space. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, slipping hot down his temples. He looked up at Derek, pleading, trembling.
Derek's mouth quirked into a smirk that was pure, infuriating mischief. "I'm afraid I don't understand sign language quite well," he mouthed, his voice a low rumble Stiles felt through his fingertips.
Stiles' face burned crimson. He closed his eyes, chest heaving, resigned to his fate that the beast would take what it wanted.
But Derek went still. His hand came up, gentle despite the iron grip on Stiles' hip, and tapped his chin. "Eyes on me," he signed one-handed. And then, slower, "Trust me."
He didn't move deeper. He waited, letting Stiles adjust to the stretch, to the impossible fullness. And slowly, Stiles' trembling hands moved from where they pushed at Derek's chest to rest against those perfect abs. His fingers spread, feeling the shuddering restraint there. He took a deep breath, then another. The burn softened, edged with something else—something that made his own cock, neglected and leaking, give an interested twitch.
Derek saw it. Of course he fucking saw it.
He pushed forward in one long, inexorable slide, burying himself to the hilt. The pain was a wave, cresting and breaking, and Stiles' mouth opened on a soundless moan. His hands fluttered against Derek's stomach, too weak now to push, instead mapping the ridges of muscle as they flexed with Derek's first thrust.
The friction was everything. Derek pulled back, the drag of his cock sending sparks up Stiles' spine, then snapped his hips forward. The sound that left Derek's throat was feral, a growl that Stiles felt vibrating through his palms. "Fuck," Derek mouthed, his eyes rolling back. "Your ass—Stiles, your ass—"
He set a pace that was relentless, each thrust angled just right, nailing Stiles' prostate with devastating accuracy. The pain had dissolved into a building pressure, a pleasure so intense it felt like dying. Stiles' cock bounced against his stomach, smearing precum in messy stripes. He was making sounds he couldn't hear—whimpers, gasps, breathless little cries that Derek devoured with his eyes.
Then Derek's hands were on his hips, flipping him with a inhumane strength. Stiles landed on his knees, chest pressed to the sofa cushions, ass in the air. The new angle made him clench down hard around Derek's cock, drawing a groan from the older man that Stiles felt in his bones.
Derek's hands roamed his back, fingertips tracing his spine like he was writing a story there. When they reached around to pinch Stiles' nipples—sensitive and hard—Stiles' whole body locked up, his ass squeezing tight around Derek's length. The pleasure was a knife's edge, bright and sharp.
Derek's rhythm never faltered, a constant piston-drive that had Stiles seeing stars. He buried his face in the cushion, overwhelmed, and choked out the only word that mattered.
"Der~"
It was breathy, broken, barely voiced.
Derek froze. Mid-thrust, frozen. His cock pulsed inside Stiles, heavy and hot. His head whipped around, scanning the loft with wild eyes, searching for—what? An intruder? A ghost?
No one.
Silence, except for the blood roaring in his own ears.
Derek's gaze dragged back down to Stiles, who was trembling beneath him, face buried in the cushions—oblivious to the phantom sound that had just derailed Derek's entire universe. The boy's hips were still rolling in tiny, desperate circles, seeking the friction Derek had denied him.
Stiles turned his head, cheek pressed to the fabric, and fixed Derek with a look of pure frustration. Why did you stop? it said, clear as any signed word. Then he pushed back, impaling himself further on Derek's cock with a deliberate swivel of his hips, grinding down and making a corkscrew motion that drew a feral grunt from Derek's chest.
Derek's vision tunneled. That look—raw, starving, needy—tore through his hesitation. Imagination, he chanted internally, a writer's lie to himself. You wanted to hear him so badly, you conjured it. But the memory of that soft, broken "Der~" echoed behind his ribs like a sentence he couldn't delete.
He started moving again, slow and deep, a controlled slide that built friction from the base of his spine. Gradually, his pace increased, the slap of skin on skin becoming a rhythm Stiles could feel through the sofa frame. Derek wrapped his arms around Stiles from behind, chest to back, sealing them together so tight not even air passed between. Each thrust from this angle was devastating—deeper, harder, hitting Stiles' prostate with unerring precision.
Stiles was drowning in it. The world reduced to the thick cock splitting him open, the drag and burn that melted into liquid gold each time Derek found that spot. He couldn't hear the groans ripping from his own throat, but he felt them as vibrations in his chest, tasted them in the back of his mouth like copper and want. The scent of sex filled his nose—sweat and precum and Derek's wild, woodsmoke musk. His hands scrabbled against the sofa, then down, seeking his own neglected cock.
Derek caught the movement in his peripheral vision. Faster than thought, his hand snaked around, wrapping around Stiles' shaft with a grip that was possessive, not gentle. He stroked slowly, torturously, thumb dragging through the slickness at the slit with deliberate, teasing pressure.
A strange pressure built at the root of Stiles' cock—not just the usual climb to orgasm, but something deeper, a tingling urgency in his urethra that made his thighs quake. Then Derek thrust again, angling his hips just so, and slammed directly into his prostate.
Stiles' voice broke. A high, keening sound—half-squeal, half-sob—ripped from his throat as his cock erupted. White ribbons arced through the air, splattering across Derek's fingers, the sofa cushion, Stiles' own heaving chest. Derek didn't stop stroking, milking him through the aftershocks, the sensation so intense it bordered on pain. Stiles' back arched like a bow, spine curving impossibly as his body convulsed around Derek's still-driving cock.
But Derek wasn't close. Not yet. The sight of Stiles coming undone had wound him tighter, transformed his arousal into something vicious and unrelenting. He drove deeper, harder, each thrust making Stiles wince as oversensitivity screamed through his nerves. Yet that same friction, that same relentless pressure against his prostate, had his spent cock twitching, valiantly trying to harden again.
Derek's rhythm was punishing now, a piston-stroke that had Stiles seeing stars. Just when Stiles thought he might shatter, Derek pulled out—earning a whimpered protest—and manhandled him with effortless strength. Stiles found himself flipped, repositioned, straddling Derek's lap, chest to chest, Derek's cock still buried inside him.
Derek's fingers gripped his chin, forcing their eyes to lock. "Look at me," he mouthed, each word precise, carved from granite. "Look at me when I fill you with my cock." The possessiveness in his gaze was a physical weight.
Stiles shuddered, nodding frantically. He planted his palms on Derek's shoulders and began to move, lifting his hips and dropping them in a clumsy, desperate rhythm. The angle was perfect, Derek's length dragging over his prostate with every bounce. Emboldened by Derek's heated stare, Stiles' hands drifted to his own chest, fingers pinching and twisting his nipples, rolling the sensitive peaks between his knuckles.
Derek's eyes flared, nostrils flaring at the sight. His hands clamped on Stiles' slender waist, and he slammed the boy down onto his cock, using his strength to control the pace, the depth. Stiles arched, a silent scream shaping his lips as the pressure in his cock built again, a phantom orgasm coiling at the base of his spine.
His hand shot down to grip his own shaft, desperate to chase that second release.
Derek caught his wrist mid-air. Then the other. He pinned them behind Stiles' back in one large hand, the other still guiding his hips. He shook his head slowly, a feral smirk playing on his lips. Not yet.
Stiles glared, eyes wide and wet, but the protest died when Derek began ramming up into him with renewed ferocity. Each thrust was a claim, a branding. Derek's eyes squeezed shut, his own cock twitching, pulsing with the telltale rush of impending climax. The flutter in his stomach spread, his balls drawing tight.
He yanked Stiles forward, crushing their mouths together. His tongue surged inside, slick and demanding, twining with Stiles' in a messy, desperate dance. Stiles' lips moved against his, kissing back with equal ferocity, biting down on Derek's lower lip when the Derek's tongue lingered too deep, too long.
Derek didn't care. He devoured him, staking his claim in taste and teeth.
Then he felt it—that final, impossible squeeze from Stiles' body, the flutter of muscles drawing him deeper. Both of them teetered on the edge.
Derek's snarl was pure animal, vibrating through his chest and into Stiles' palms. He slammed Stiles down one last time, burying himself to the root as his cock erupted. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded Stiles' ass, each spurt accompanied by a brutal jerk of Derek's hips, ensuring every last seed was planted deep. The sensation triggered Stiles' second orgasm, weaker but no less devastating, his own release painting Derek's chocolate abs in messy stripes.
Derek kept pumping through it, his lips never leaving Stiles', swallowing the boy's silent cries, his breathless gasps, the sounds he couldn't hear but could feel in the way Stiles' chest heaved and his body clenched. He didn't stop kissing him until the aftershocks faded, until they were both trembling, until the only story left to tell was written in their intertwined heartbeats.
Notes:
I hope you enjoyed that ride as much as Stiles did! Kudos are appreciated. Comments would be most welcomed! I hope to know what you guys think of this work.
Chapter 8
Notes:
Hello, guys! I'm so thankful for the feedback from last chapter. Glad that you enjoyed the buildup to the smut! Here's an update for you all. More Sterek spending time together!
PS: I have an important exam tomorrow, please pray for me! (Posted as a means to avoid studying)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
A couple days later, Derek typed the final period on his manuscript with a flourish that felt almost ceremonial. The End. Two words that signaled both triumph and freedom. The deadline had loomed like a full moon for weeks, but now the document was saved, backed up in three places, and ready for his editor's blood-red pen. He'd texted Erica—a simple "Manuscript done. Delivering to Isaac myself later"— before clicking the print button and let the printer do its job. The phone chimed several times and Derek ignored his manager's immediate string of celebratory emojis.
"I’ll swing by later today and drop off the manuscript. Should be there sometime after 4. If you’re not home, I’ll leave it by the door."
He sent the text to Isaac. Him coming over here to pick up the manuscript as per usual was out of the question. His little group of close friend didn't know about Stiles yet. That was a conversation that needed to happen face-to-face, with Stiles' permission, not spilled through gossip. The boy didn't like crowds, didn't like the weight of expectations from people he hadn't chosen. Derek got that. Hell, he respected it more than Stiles knew.
He stretched, spine cracking, and wandered toward the living room in search of his boyfriend's particular brand of chaotic energy.
"Now that I've finished my manuscript…" Derek began, voice trailing off as he approached Stiles who was curled into the corner of the sofa, nose buried in a book. Stiles didn't hear him, of course, but he must have felt the shift in the air, the vibration of Derek's footsteps. He looked up, brown eyes wide and guilty, then immediately defensive.
Derek dropped to his knees beside the sofa, pouting theatrically, seeking the attention he'd been starved of during his writing binge. "What are you doing?" he mouthed, exaggerating the words.
Stiles watched him, then glanced down at the book in his lap. He was only on page five. Then he immediately closed book. Derek recognized the cover with a jolt of panic.
Velvet and Claws.
The one he’d written during his self-indulgent, post-breakup spiral—the one where the protagonist was a little too sarcastic, a little too human, and the werewolf love interest was painfully emotionally constipated. The one with smut so filthy it hadn’t just earned him three separate erotica awards—it had somehow swept an entire niche circuit and landed him a fourth, an honorary “please seek therapy” distinction from a group of veteran romance authors who absolutely knew better.
The one Derek had hidden in his personal bedroom collection specifically so Stiles would never find it and recognize himself on every damn page.
Great, Derek thought. If he snatched it now, maybe he could claim it was a rough draft, a terrible early work, anything but what it clearly was—a barely-fictionalized account of every fantasy Derek had ever had about someone exactly like Stiles.
But Stiles was hyperaware now, shoulders hunching protectively over the book like a dragon guarding treasure. When Derek reached for it, Stiles slapped his hand away and signed furiously, fingers flying: Don't you dare. You take this, and you're not getting any sex from me for a week.
The threat landed like a perfectly aimed arrow. Derek's hand froze mid-air. A week? He'd barely survived the three days he'd spent locked in his office, surviving on coffee and the memory of Stiles' skin. His cock gave an involuntary twitch at the mere thought of that drought.
Derek sighed, the sound heavy and defeated. He let his hands fall to his sides. "Fine," he mouthed, adding the sign for fine just to be extra clear. "But we're discussing this later."
He pushed himself up, needing something to do with his hands before he did something stupid—like argue, or worse, beg. The living room was mostly tidy, thanks to Stiles' restless energy, but there were still pockets of chaos: stacks of research books on folklore, scattered manuscript pages covered in red ink, a coffee mug forest on the side table. Derek had told Stiles not to touch certain piles, needing the spatial memory for his writing process. Now that the manuscript was done, the mess felt oppressive.
He started with the books, alphabetizing them with mindful precision. The DILF dictionary—Deaf Independent Living Foundation, though Derek kept hearing DILF not just from Stiles but his acquaintances from the institution as well, that the nickname had stuck so thoroughly—went on the linguistics shelf. As he lifted it, something slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor like a dying moth.
Derek bent to retrieve it. The paper was glossy, folded into a precise rectangle. He unfolded it, and his breath caught.
HEARING AID CATALOGUE, the header read. Below it, sleek, futuristic devices were displayed like jewelry—some nearly invisible, others bold, technological statements. Prices were listed in small, sobering print.
Hearing aid?
Derek's mind stuttered. Most of his acquaintances from the DILF had been born deaf, their condition as immutable as eye color. But Stiles... Stiles had never talked about how he'd become deaf. Derek had assumed—it was congenital, permanent. The way Stiles navigated the world, the way he commanded silence as if it were a choice, had made it seem absolute.
Was it reversible? Could a device actually help him?
The memory slammed into him with physical force—their first time, the phantom sound that had made Derek freeze. "Der~" A voice he'd dismissed as want-induced hallucination, a product of his writer's imagination run wild.
"I almost forgot about it!" Derek exclaimed aloud, the words startling in the quiet room, ricocheting off the loft's brick walls. He put the flyer back into the dictionary and placed it on the shelves.
Derek grabbed the notebook that lay on the coffee table amidst scattered pens and coffee rings. He wrote with careful precision, each letter a trembling accusation and plea.
I almost forgot about it, but did I hear it right or was I hallucinating? I thought I heard you calling my name when we first made love.
He walked to Stiles and handed him the notebook, then sank to his knees beside the sofa. Derek leaned closer, waiting, his breath held hostage by hope.
Stiles took the notebook, reading it twice. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. Then he scribbled his answer, the pen scratching angrily.
I never said I was mute. It's not like I was born deaf.
Derek blinked at the new information, the words rearranging everything he thought he knew. The world tilted sideways.
He snatched the pen back, writing fast:
Wait. It wasn't from birth?
Stiles shook his head, took the notebook:
No. I had a terrible car accident a year ago, and it broke both of my middle ears.
Then Stiles signed, I thought I told you this? It's also where I got the scar on my face.
Derek's gaze flickered to the the faint scar that curved from his temple to his cheek, the one he'd written into his novel characters. The one he'd kissed a over and over without knowing its significance.
No you failed to mention that to me.
Derek handed the notebook to Stiles. Stiles' signature eye-roll was tinged with something darker—old grief, or shame. He wrote back with clear discomfort.
Well, you never asked, so I don't think you wanna know. But no. It didn't impair my ability for speech.
Derek signed as he spoke, his hands and mouth moving in tandem, a habit he'd developed with Stiles: Then how come I never heard you talk?
Stiles sighed, a heavy exhalation that seemed to deflate him. He wrote slowly, the words halting.
I never talk since I couldn't hear what I said. I was afraid that my pronunciation and articulation would be unclear and that would make me look like an idiot. Like I said when we first met, I don't want people to think that I'm handicapped."
Derek received the notebook and read it thoroughly, the confession settling in his chest like a stone. He looked up at Stiles's eyes—guarded, defiant, achingly vulnerable—and wrote.
Then, call my name once again.
He handed the note and Stiles blushed when he read it, the color flooding his cheeks like ink in water. Derek's intense stare was unwavering, his manly face carved with a hunger that wasn't just sexual—it was deeper, a need for proof, for connection across the barrier of silence.
"D-D-Der.. Derek-~" Stiles said, voice rusty with disuse, cracking on the syllables. He looked away, mortified.
Derek's heart stuttered, then hammered against his ribs like it wanted to escape. The sound was angelic—soft, hesitant, slightly hoarse, but his name. His cock twitched involuntarily from the intimacy of it, from the trust it represented. Derek smiled, a rare, unguarded thing, and grabbed Stiles's shoulder.
"Say it again," he mouthed, the words gentle but insistent.
Stiles shook his head, refusing, his throat working.
Derek's expression crumpled, hurt flickering across his features. He signed: But why?
Stiles sighed, then signed with sharp, jerky motions: It's pointless if I can't hear it.
Derek caught his hands mid-air, stilling them. He signed back: But I can hear it. It's not pointless, Stiles. It's everything.
Stiles ignored him, pulling his hands free. He went back to the book he'd been reading, but Derek noticed he'd flipped closer to the first smut scene—the one where the werewolf takes the human against a window, the one Derek had written in a fever-dream of longing. But that wasn't what was important right now.
Derek took the notebook and pen and wrote a question, a very important question that felt like stepping off a cliff. He tapped Stiles' shoulder. When he got Stiles' attention, he handed him the notebook.
Can your hearing loss get better? Or is it a permanent thing?
Stiles looked up at Derek, tilting his head after reading the question. The he wrote something and showed it to Derek.
Severe Conductive Hearing Loss.
He signed,My doctor said that the accident caused permanent damage to both my middle ear, causing this. He pointed at his writing, then signed again: But I remembered they told me surgery would permanently deal with it and improve my hearing significantly. But it's too expensive. And I got fired from my previously stable job and my current job doesn't really pay that high.
Derek stared at the medical term, at Stiles' careful handwriting, at the casual admission of financial ruin that was hidden beneath the clinical words. His insides wanted to scream at the injustice. The writer saw a plot thread dangling, begging to be resolved. The man saw his boyfriend trying to be brave about a loss he didn't have to accept.
Derek stood still for a moment, the notebook still open in his hands, Stiles' clinical confession burning in his vision like a scar. Then he turned on his heel and walked away—not out of anger, but necessity. He needed to move, to do something before the frustration boiling in his chest spilled over in a way he'd regret.
Stiles watched him go, confusion tightening his features.
Derek went to the kitchen. To the dictionary. He returned with the hearing aid catalogue held between two fingers like evidence, and placed it deliberately on the coffee table in front of Stiles. He tapped the glossy paper, then signed: Will this help you hear?
Stiles' eyebrows furrowed—probably wondering where he even found that?—but he nodded, a tight, reluctant jerk of his head.
Are you going to get one of those? Derek signed, trying to keep his hands steady.
Stiles' hands moved in a flurry, fluid and quick now from months of practice.
Not yet. It's way too expensive for me. I do want one, but one of these costs— He paused, poiting at the word $3390 on the catalogue and winced as he did so, before continuing again. I'm going to get some more part-time jobs to earn money to buy one. And I'm hoping the institution will help find me a better job, since I have qualifications for corporate work.
He smiled then, but it was the practiced smile Derek recognized from uncomfortable social events—the one that said I'm fine, don't worry about me, I'm handling it.
The writer in Derek could see the plot holes in that plan. Part-time jobs wouldn't cover rent, living expenses, and a $3,400 pair of hearing aids for at least a year. He saw his boyfriend trying to be brave about a solution that was years away.
Derek snatched the notebook, wrote: Then if you can hear your own voice again, will you call my name— He stopped, pen scratching as he crossed out "call my name" and wrote instead: "talk again?"
Then if you can hear your own voice again, will you
call my nametalk again?
Stiles took the notebook, read the crossed-out words, and huffed a laugh that Derek felt more than heard. "Sure," he signed, the movement flippant, as if it were a whimsical promise rather than a lifeline back to a world he'd lost.
Derek nodded, but his mind was already racing. He had royalties from his novels. He had savings. He had resources that Stiles, with his pride and his carefully constructed independence, would never ask to use.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with things unsaid. Stiles went back to his book, but Derek noticed he'd stopped reading. His thumb ran along the page edge, back and forth, a nervous tic.
Derek wrote another note, slower this time. "You said surgery could permanently fix it. What kind?"
Stiles read it, then took the pen. His answer was a single, devastating word:
Ossiculoplasty.
Derek had no idea what that meant, but he knew people who would. He had a research assistant. He had connections from the DILF, from the publishing world, from places where favors were currency.
But Stiles wasn't some project. He was Derek's boyfriend, and he'd made it clear from day one that he didn't want to be anyone's charity case.
Derek picked up the catalogue again, flipping to the back where the fine print listed financing options, insurance codes, medical necessity forms. His writer's mind began constructing a plan, bullet points and contingencies. His heart, though, whispered protect, provide, love.
He looked at Stiles, who was watching him now with wary eyes, the book abandoned in his lap. The boy had built his independence like armor, wielded silence like a shield. Derek had to be careful not to treat him like a problem to be solved.
But he also couldn't sit by while Stiles struggled alone.
If I can find a way, for you to get surgery, Derek signed carefully, each movement deliberate, would you let me help?
Stiles' eyes widened. His hands started to sign no, then stopped. He looked at the catalogue, at Derek's serious face, at the notebook full of their confessions.
Don't be ridiculous, Derek. It's not your problem, he signed finally, but his hands were slower now, heavy.
Derek caught his wrist gently, pulled until Stiles' palm rested against his chest, right over his heart. He mouthed the words slowly, making sure Stiles could read them, "You're not a problem. You're my everything."
Then he signed: Let me help.
Stiles shook his head and ignored him, going back to his book with a frown that said the conversation was closed. His thumb ran along the page edge again, that nervous tic Derek had catalogued as 'Stiles is overwhelmed and retreating.'
Derek let him retreat. For all of three minutes. Then he signed, deliberately catching Stiles' peripheral vision. Do you wanna go on a date this evening?
Stiles looked up, suspicion written in the purse of his lips. A date?
Derek nodded, smiling in what he hoped was a charming, non-threatening way. I wanna take you sightseeing. You haven't done that in a while, right? Then after that maybe we can eat out?
Stiles' hands hesitated mid-air, his expression shifting from suspicious to something softer, tinged with old fears. I don't think that's a good idea. There will be crowds of people, and people might look at me funny, and I could get scolded if I walk too slow or get in anyone's way.
Derek's frown was immediate, protective. That won't happen, Stiles. You don't need to worry. And this time, you don't even need to wear the cane I asked you to wear all the time.
Stiles frowned at that, confusion mixing with the hesitation.
Derek's hands moved slower now, each sign deliberate and weighted: Because you'll be holding my hands instead. He reached out and laced his fingers through Stiles', pulling their joined hands into Stiles' lap where the book had been moments before. His free hand continued signing: That way you won't be getting in anyone's way and even if you do, no one's going to scold you. I'll make sure of it.
Stiles' face went crimson, the blush spreading from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. That's a stupid idea. It's embarrassing. People will stare even more.
Derek leaned in, close enough that Stiles could feel the warmth of his breath, the vibration of his voice even if he couldn't hear the words. "Let them stare. I'm more than happy to show you off. Let people know my boyfriend is the most handsome in the world."
Stiles' free hand came up to rub self-consciously at the scar through his cheek. No they won't think that I'm handsome.
Derek's gaze softened. He leaned in and stole a kiss directly on the scar.
Oh they will, he signed, pulling back just enough to meet Stiles' eyes. Because that's an objective fact, Stiles. Just.. please… can we go on a date?
This was Derek's first time attempting puppy eyes on Stiles—it had worked on his previous girlfriends, that vulnerable, hopeful look that made him look younger than his thirty-five years. He was fairly certain he looked ridiculous, but he was desperate enough to try.
Stiles studied his face for a long moment, those brown eyes cataloguing every feature. Then he heaved a long, dramatic sigh that Derek felt in his own chest.
Okay, but I pick out where we eat.
Derek's grin was blinding. "Deal."
Stiles insisted on going home first to clean up as he'd signed with a wrinkled nose, so Derek drove him back to his tiny studio apartment—the one Derek had been subtly trying to get him to move out of for a few days that they'd became boyfriends. He reminded Stiles to bring sleeping clothes and work clothes because Stiles would sleep over at Derek's, before driving off.
Before heading back to the loft, Derek made a detour to Isaac's place, manuscript tucked into a leather folio like an offering. Isaac opened the door with his usual solemn expression, but his eyes lit up when he saw the completed draft.
"On time," Isaac noted, arching an eyebrow. "Erica owes me twenty bucks. She bet you'd be at least three days late."
Derek just smirked, saying "Tell her to pay up," before heading back to the car. The stop took ten minutes. The anticipation of seeing Stiles again made it feel like ten hours.
Derek washed up at the loft—scrubbing away the creative fugue he'd existed in for days—and picked Stiles up again at 6 PM sharp. Stiles answered the door in a white Polo shirt that made his eyes look impossibly warm, hair still damp and curling at the ends. Stiles looked pure and radiant, like an angel. Derek's heart did something stupid and complicated in his chest.
The shopping district Derek chose was a sprawling outdoor mall in the city's revitalized downtown—twinkling fairy lights strung between trees, a central fountain that glowed with shifting colors, and enough pedestrian space that Stiles wouldn't feel trapped. He'd researched it beforehand, checking crowd patterns and accessibility, because he was apparently that kind of boyfriend now.
He kept his promise before they even left the car. As soon as Stiles stepped onto the pavement, Derek's hand found his, lacing their fingers together with a firmness that said I'm not letting go. Stiles' palm was already a little clammy, but when he tried to pull away, signing My hand is sweaty, Derek just tightened his grip and signed back: I don't care. Mine too.
Stiles was hyperaware at first. His steps were hesitant, eyes darting between the ground and Derek's face, reading his lips for reassurance. The mall was a sensory assault he couldn't filter—the flicker of lights, the constant movement in his periphery, the vibration of footsteps he couldn't hear but felt through the soles of his shoes. Derek felt his hand tense, saw the dizziness in the way Stiles' gaze unfocused.
Derek stopped them by a decorative planter, cupped Stiles' face in his free hand, and signed slowly: Breathe. I'm right here. Focus on me.
Stiles did. He took a shuddering breath, grounding himself in Derek's steady presence. By the time they reached the central courtyard, his grip had loosened from death-grip to something comfortable, and a small smile was playing at his lips.
When the scent of food hit—grilled meat, spices, sweet frying dough—Stiles' entire demeanor shifted. He went from cautious to electrified in a heartbeat, tugging excitedly on Derek's hand and pulling him toward the food court with the enthusiasm of a kid unleashed in a candy store. Derek let himself be dragged, laughing silent and breathless as Stiles bounced from vendor to vendor, eyes wide and cataloguing everything.
They circled the options twice before Stiles decided, pointing emphatically at a Japanese vendor with a massive steaming pot in the window. He ordered a set of heavy broth ramen—The one with the black garlic oil and extra chashu, please, he signed to the cashier, who blinked in confusion until Derek translated. Stiles also ordered a massive lychee juice from the neighboring vendor, the kind that came in a clear plastic cup with a dome lid and fresh fruit floating on top.
Derek ordered the same ramen—If I'm going to kiss you later, we should at least taste the same, he signed with a smirk that made Stiles blush—and a cold oolong tea.
They found a table tucked in a corner, away from the main flow of foot traffic. Derek kept his promise, never letting go of Stiles' hand even as they ate. It made manipulating chopsticks awkward as hell, but worth it for the way Stiles' thumb kept stroking absent circles into Derek's palm.
The ramen was perfect—rich, unctuous broth that coated the tongue, noodles with just the right chew, the black garlic oil adding a deep, smoky sweetness. Stiles slurped his with abandon, unbothered by the noise he couldn't hear himself making. Derek watched, enchanted, as Stiles' eyes fluttered shut in pleasure, as he signed So good with his free hand while his mouth was still full.
Halfway through, a group of teenagers barreled past their table, jostling Stiles' elbow. His ramen bowl skidded, broth sloshing dangerously close to the edge. Before Stiles could even flinch, Derek's free hand shot out, steadying the bowl while his body angled protectively between Stiles and the crowd.
He caught the eye of one of the kids, who started to mouth an apology, then visibly startled at the intensity of Derek's glare. The group scurried away.
Derek turned back to Stiles, his expression softening instantly. Okay? he signed.
Stiles just smiled, soft and real, and lifted their joined hands to press a kiss to Derek's knuckles. Better than okay, he signed. Best date ever.
The simple gesture, the uncomplicated joy in his eyes, made Derek's chest ache with something that felt dangerously like forever.
They finished eating with their fingers still intertwined, Stiles occasionally feeding Derek a piece of marinated egg from his bowl just to watch him chew. Derek retaliated by stealing sips of Stiles' lychee juice, making exaggerated mmm faces that had Stiles giggling silently, shoulders shaking.
As they left the food court, Stiles' hand was genuinely sweaty now, but he didn't try to pull away. Instead, he laced their fingers tighter, letting Derek guide him through the crowd like an anchor in a storm.
And Derek, who had spent his career writing about passion in all its forms, thought that maybe this—this quiet, hand-sweaty, ramen-flavored domesticity—was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced.
On the drive home, Derek made an unexpected turn into a part of the city that Stiles didn't recognize—a newly developed commercial block with glass-fronted buildings that glowed like lanterns in the twilight. He parked in front of a sleek, minimalist storefront with a discreet sign reading "Auditory Solutions ".
Stiles' confusion was immediate, his hand tightening on the door handle. When he looked up at the sign, his eyes widened with dawning realization, then narrowed with suspicion. Derek, what—
But Derek was already out of the car, circling to Stiles' side. He opened the door and took Stiles' hand, the grip gentle but unyielding. Trust me, he signed with his free hand, then tugged Stiles toward the entrance.
Inside, the space was hushed and modern, all soft lighting and curved reception desks. Several attendants looked up, but one woman in particular—a middle-aged brunette with kind eyes—approached them with a practiced smile. Derek felt the tug at his leather jacket, Stiles' fingers clutching the hem in a silent wait, but he ignored it and signed to the woman: I was the one who called earlier. About the bone conduction hearing aid.
Her face brightened. She replied with voice and signed back simultaneously with practiced fluency: "Oh, are you Mr. Hale? Is this regarding the bone conduction model we discussed?"
Derek smiled and nodded, squeezing Stiles' hand when he felt him try to pull away.
The woman quickly guided them to a consultation area—soft chairs arranged around a low table with a tablet displaying rotating product images. She disappeared behind a curved wall, returning with what looked like a sleek, futuristic headband: minimalist black metal with small pads that rested behind the ears.
As she fitted it onto Stiles, Derek kept his eyes locked on his boyfriend's face. The woman turned on the device with a small remote, starting at the lowest amplification. She explained and signed to Derek and Stiles: "We'll increase gradually. Have him indicate when he perceives sound."
Derek leaned forward, his lips forming the question slowly, "Can you hear anything?"
Stiles shook his head, expression tight with anticipation and fear.
She amped it up. Again, the silent headshake.
Another notch. Another shake.
Then—Stiles' eyes widened fractionally. His hand shot out, gripping Derek's knee. White noise, he signed with his free hand. Faint. From your direction.
Derek's heart leapt. The woman adjusted again, and this time when Derek mouthed "Can you hear me?", Stiles didn't watch his lips. His gaze fixed on Derek's eyes instead, and he nodded—vehemently, tears already gathering.
But Derek's expression shifted from triumph to alarm. A fat tear rolled down Stiles' cheek, then another. Derek's hands flew up: "What's wrong? Is it painful?"
Stiles wiped the tears, bewildered. He signed shakily: The sound was a bit distant. But I heard you. More tears fell, absurd and unstoppable. I can hear.
Derek's chest tightened at the sight—Stiles crying not from pain, but from the overwhelming weight of possibility. He cupped Stiles' face in both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears with tender precision. He leaned in close, so Stiles the device could pick it up better. "It's okay. Let it out. I've got you."
Then Stiles seemed to remember where they were—in a public clinic, with a stranger watching. His face flushed crimson, and he frantically scrubbed at his cheeks with both sleeves, mortified. He turned his body slightly away from the attendant, shoulders hunching as if he could hide the evidence.
He caught Stiles' wrists gently, stilling the frantic wiping, and signed low where only Stiles could see: It's okay. Let them see. This is your moment.
He pulled Stiles into a one-armed hug, tucking him against his side, shielding him from curious eyes while making it look casual. He pressed his lips to Stiles' temple, murmuring words he knew Stiles couldn't fully hear, but could feel: "You're safe. I'm here."
Stiles took a shuddering breath, visibly forcing himself to regain composure. He pulled back just enough to sign, hands small and close to his chest: Embarrassing.
Derek shook his head, he leaned to the hearing device. "It's beautiful. Now, ready to hear more?"
Only when Stiles gave a shaky nod did Derek turn to the attendant, his voice steady but his eyes still warm on Stiles. "Can you turn it up more?"
She nodded, professional but warm. "We'll test to maximum amplification. Some clients prefer gradual adjustment over several visits, but—"
Stiles cut her off with a sharp gesture: More.
She increased the setting three more times. With each incremental rise, Derek asked the question—"Can you hear me?"—and each time, Stiles' world grew clearer. The voice was different from his memory, layered with white noise and digital sharpness, but it was Derek's voice. Deep, slightly rough, imbued with a concern that made Stiles' chest ache.
"This is the best model?" Derek asked the woman, not looking away from Stiles.
"It's the latest from the leading brand," she signed and spoke simultaneously, professional pride evident. "Clients report significantly better sound quality and comfort compared to competitors. Repair is also simpler—fewer proprietary parts."
Derek fished his wallet from his jacket. "We'll take it."
Stiles' hand shot out, catching Derek's wrist with surprising strength. Derek, NO, he signed furiously. This is crazy expensive.
Stiles turned his glare on the attendant. How much again?
She glanced at her tablet and signed to Stiles. For the bilateral bone conduction model with maximum amplification and Bluetooth connectivity, it's at this price.
Then Stiles' gaze flicked down to the tablet the woman turned to him.
$4,850.
Stiles gasped, whipping back to Derek with a vehement headshake.
Derek handed his credit card to the woman anyway.
Stiles' hands went wild with signing, fingers blurring: Are you insane? That's more than my rent! Derek, stop—
The woman processed the purchase with polite efficiency, placing the device back in its sleek box. But Derek stopped her with a gesture. "He'll wear it now."
She smiled, but her hands were firm: "I must advise against immediate outdoor use. The sudden increase in decibel levels could startle him. Better to adjust in a quiet, controlled environment first."
Stiles sagged in his chair, the argument draining from him. He looked at Derek—this infuriating, generous, impossible man who had just spent nearly five thousand dollars on a whim—and felt the last brick in his carefully constructed wall of independence crumble into dust.
Stiles was signing so fast his hands were a blur of indignation the moment Derek pulled out of the parking lot. You shouldn't have done that. That's too much money. I didn't ask you to—
Derek kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to still Stiles' frantic fingers against his thigh. You deserve it, he signed back, the movement slow and firm.
Stiles yanked his hand free, folding his arms across his chest with a huff Derek felt more than heard. Just because we're dating, he signed sharply, doesn't mean you have to pay for everything I need. I'm not a kept boy.
Clearly, Stiles had been more diligent with the course and the dictionary since he'd been buried in deadlines, because Derek didn't get what the last word meant. But the words were punctuated by a jab to Derek's shoulder that had more emotion than force behind it.
Derek waited for a red light, then reached for his phone. He opened the speech-to-text app, hit record, and spoke clearly: "Remember when I said my female lead always becomes you? Well, my last project—the one I just finished, not the one you've accidentally read previously—the female lead was heavily inspired by your appearance and mannerisms. My manager says it's getting positive reviews from early readers. It's selling well. And... the money from that? It's yours too. Consider the hearing aid an advance."
He handed the phone to Stiles just as the light turned green.
Stiles' jaw literally dropped. He read the text twice, face flushing crimson. You're insane, he signed, shoving the phone back. That's still your money. Not mine. I didn't do anything.
Derek just smiled, sliding the phone into the holder at the center console. Stiles was pouting now, arms crossed, lower lip jutting out in a tantrum that would have looked childish if it weren't so goddamn endearing. It was too fucking cute. Derek couldn't help the grin that split his face, even as his cock gave an interested twitch at the memory of what that mouth could do when it wasn't sulking.
But if this argument continued, the date might not end in the hot, sweaty sex he'd been fantasizing about since Stiles had kissed his knuckles over dinner. Somehow, Derek found he didn't really mind. If dropping five grand on a hearing aid meant he got to hear Stiles say his name—really say it, voice and breath and sound—for the rest of their lives, that was a trade he'd make every single time.
They pulled up to the apartment parking lot, and Derek cut the engine. In the backseat, Stiles' worn work bag sat next to a small duffel with a few changes of clothes—evidence that he'd been staying over more nights than not. Derek glanced at it, then at Stiles, who was still stubbornly staring out the passenger window.
He'd contemplated asking Stiles to move in at least a dozen times. But Stiles had refused even the idea of Derek driving him to and from work at first. It had taken three hours of signed arguments, pleading, and one very persuasive blowjob in the driver's seat before Stiles finally relented. Derek figured asking him to move in now would be met with even more resistance—especially after the hearing aid. Stiles would see it as another attempt to "solve" his life, another charity move that undermined his independence.
Derek reached over, gently uncrossing Stiles' arms and threading their fingers together. Come on, he signed, bringing Stiles' knuckles to his lips. Let's go inside. You can yell at me properly where there's a bed to collapse on after.
Stiles' scowl cracked, a reluctant smile breaking through. I don't yell, he signed primly. I make strongly worded gestures.
Derek laughed, the sound low and fond. Same thing, baby.
He didn't push the moving-in conversation. Not yet. But he kept Stiles' hand in his all the way up to the loft, mentally calculating how many more nights of "just a few clothes" it would take before Stiles' entire wardrobe lived in his closet.
Three weeks, he estimated. Maybe four, if Stiles was feeling particularly stubborn.
Derek could wait. He was very good at writing slow-burn stories.
Notes:
There! It's their first date! Hope you guys enjoyed it as much as I do! Wish me luck on my exam tomorrow! :3
Chapter 9
Notes:
Hi again!! If you’re still here reading this chaotic love story, just know I’m sending you a virtual hug. Special shout-out to my loyal trio of commenters, you’re the real MVPs and I adore every word you leave on this work.
Heads up: this chapter includes explicit sexual content, so read with caution (and excitement 😉).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Derek closed the front door and locked it, Stiles was already in the living room, collapsed on the sofa with the hearing aid box in his lap. He traced the embossed brand name on the lid with his thumb, lips moving silently as he read the technical specs printed on the side—Bluetooth enabled, water-resistant, maximum amplification up to 141 dB SPL and a gain of 83 dB. He looked like a kid trying to decipher a treasure map.
The sofa dipped as Derek sat beside him, close enough that their thighs brushed. Try it on, he signed, nudging Stiles' shoulder. Remember the clerk said you should get used to it indoors first.
Stiles shot him a look—I know what she said, I'm not an idiot—but opened the box. The device was a sleek curve of matte black, deceptively light. He fitted it behind his ears, adjusting the pads until they rested snugly against his skull. When he turned it on, there was a faint click he felt as a vibration. A small LED glowed blue.
Stiles looked at Derek and signed: Can you talk, so I know how to adjust the setting?
Derek nodded, cleared his throat, and started with the basics: "Is my voice clear? Is it muffled? Does it sound distant?" He watched Stiles' fingers find the volume control, cycling through settings. Stiles settled on the third-from-top notch.
This is good, Stiles signed, testing it. Not too loud. Still a bit distant. But less static.
"Close your eyes as you try to hear," Derek instructed and Stiles did as told.
Derek walked a few feet away to across him and asked again. "Can you tell where the sound's coming from? Can you gauge distance?"
Stiles tilted his head, eyes still closed. He pointed at Derek's general direction, then signed: From over there. Maybe... five feet?
"That's about right," Derek confirmed.
He opened his eyes and nodded, pleased with himself. Keep talking.
Derek raked a hand through his hair. "What should I talk about?"
Anything.
Derek began to ramble, the way he did when he was writing and the words wouldn't stop. This is the longest he'd ever rambled ever, actually. "I don't know what to talk about. This is weird. I mean, I've been talking to you for months, but usually you're reading my lips or I'm signing, and now you're hearing my voice and I don't know if I sound different than you imagined. Do I? I probably sound weird. I should've asked you what you wanted me to sound like. Not that I could change it. But I—" He paused, realizing Stiles was just staring. Not at his hands, not at his lips, but at his face, with an intensity that made Derek's breath catch. "What?"
Stiles didn't sign. He just kept staring, tears welling up in his eyes, spilling over before he could wipe them away.
Derek's heart lurched. "What's wrong? Is something wrong? Is the device broken? We can return it, it hasn't been 24 hours—" He caught Stiles' arms, holding him steady.
Stiles closed the distance between them and kissed him. Soft and deep and not sexual, just... a flood of affection so pure it left Derek breathless. When he pulled away, Derek asked again, searching Stiles' glistening brown eyes. "Stiles, what's wrong? Baby?"
"I love you."
It was loud and clear and sure, and it was Stiles. His voice was rougher than Derek imagined, slightly hoarse from disuse, but it was him. Raw and unpracticed and devastatingly sincere.
Stiles' first word to him had been "Der," breathless in the dark. His second, a stuttered "Derek," hesitant and small. And now his third—his third was a complete sentence, a declaration, a goddamn miracle.
Derek was kissing him again before he could process it, hard and desperate and passionate, pouring every word he'd ever written, every feeling he'd ever had, into the press of lips and the slide of tongue. He tasted salt from Stiles' tears and heard—heard—the small, involuntary sound Stiles made in the back of his throat.
It was the most erotic noise Derek had ever heard.
Derek was still kissing him, devouring him, when Stiles pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips, "We should take this to bed."
The sound of his own voice—rough, a little broken, but there—made Stiles pause, eyes widening. Derek just smiled, thumb stroking his cheek.
"Don't stop," Derek whispered. "I want to hear you."
Stiles swallowed, his throat working around the unfamiliar vibration of speech. "Last time we fucked on the sofa, my back hurt for three days. I'm not doing that again."
Derek laughed, a low rumble that Stiles felt in his chest before he heard it—faint, distant, but present. It was like listening through water, but it was Derek, and that made it perfect.
"Fair point," Derek said, standing and pulling Stiles up with him. He kept their hands linked as they walked to the bedroom, Stiles' fingers trembling slightly in his grip.
In the bedroom, Derek flicked on the bedside lamp—soft, golden light that painted the walls in warm tones. He turned to Stiles, hands already moving to remove Stiles' clothes, but Stiles caught his wrists.
"Wait," Stiles said, the word coming out steadier than he expected. "I want to try something."
Derek raised an eyebrow but let his hands fall to his sides. Stiles stepped closer, close enough that their chests brushed, and he tilted his head up. He didn't kiss Derek. Instead, he spoke directly into the space between them, voice barely a whisper: "Is this okay? Can you hear me?"
"Clear as a bell," Derek murmured back. "Now kiss me before I lose my mind."
Stiles did. But it was different now—not the desperate, starving kisses of before. This was slow, exploratory. Stiles could hear the soft click of their lips parting, the wet sound when Derek's tongue slid against his. It was obscene and intimate in a way he'd forgotten, and it made his cock twitch in his jeans.
"Derek," Stiles breathed, testing the name on his tongue. It felt foreign but right. "Derek, touch me."
"Where?" Derek asked, his voice already rough with arousal. "Tell me."
"My—" Stiles started to sign, then forced his hands down. "My chest. Please."
Derek's fingers were warm through the cotton of Stiles' white polo. He pushed the shirt up slowly, his palms dragging over Stiles' ribs. When his thumbs brushed over Stiles' nipples, Stiles gasped—the sound sharp and audible, and he froze, mortified.
"Don't," Derek said, leaning in to kiss his jaw. "Don't stop making noise. I want to hear every sound you make."
Stiles shivered. "It's... it's weird. Before I always try to make as little sound as possible. I don't know what I sound like."
"You sound perfect," Derek murmured, lips tracing the shell of Stiles' ear. The hearing aid gave a faint electronic whine at the proximity, and Stiles flinched. Derek pulled back immediately, concern creasing his brow. "Too loud?"
Stiles adjusted the settings, muttering, "Too close. Too... intimate. The machine doesn't know the difference between your voice and your breath."
"Then let's give it something to really hear." Derek stripped off his own shirt, tossing it aside. "Touch me, Stiles. Use your hands however you want, but I want you to tell me what you're doing. Out loud."
Stiles' hands came up automatically, but he paused. "You want me to... narrate?"
Derek's smile was wicked. "You're my muse, aren't you? So inspire me."
A laugh bubbled out of Stiles—surprised, genuine, and beautifully unpracticed. He placed his palms flat on Derek's chest, feeling the warm skin, the steady heartbeat. "Your heart is beating fast."
"Because of you," Derek said simply. "Keep going."
Stiles dragged his hands down, tracing the lines of Derek's abs, the V of his hips. He fumbled with Derek's belt, fingers clumsy with nerves. "I'm... I'm trying to get you out of your pants."
"Thank God."
He got the buckle undone, the button popped, and then he was pushing Derek's jeans down. Derek's cock was hard, straining against his boxer-briefs, and Stiles' mouth went dry. "You're... you're hard."
"Very observant," Derek teased, but his voice was thick.
Stiles looked up, met Derek's eyes. "Can I... can I suck you?"
The question, asked out loud in that hesitant voice, nearly made Derek lose his control and take Stiles right then and there. "Fuck, Stiles. Yes. Please."
Stiles sank to his knees. The carpet was soft against his shins. He pulled Derek's underwear down, and Derek's cock sprang free, heavy and flushed. Stiles wrapped a hand around the base, marvelling at the heat of it. He leaned in, but before he took Derek into his mouth, he whispered, "Tell me if I'm doing it wrong."
"Impossible," Derek breathed, fingers threading through Stiles' hair.
Stiles licked a stripe up the underside, and Derek moaned—loud, unrestrained. The sound made Stiles' own cock ache. He took the head into his mouth, sucking gently, trying to remember the rhythm Derek liked. Above him, Derek's breathing went ragged.
"Stiles," Derek gasped. "Your mouth—fuck, the sounds you're making. The little wet noises. I can hear them."
Stiles pulled off with a pop, embarrassed. "I didn't know I was—"
"I know," Derek said, tugging him up. "That's what makes it perfect. Now get on the bed. I want to hear you when I make you come."
They stripped the rest of the way, a tangle of limbs and fabric. Derek pushed Stiles onto the mattress, crawling over him like something predatory but gentle. He settled between Stiles' thighs, cock dragging against Stiles' own erection.
Stiles arched up, the friction making him whimper. The sound—small and involuntary—shocked him. Derek just smiled, leaning down to kiss his throat. "Again," Derek murmured. "Make that sound again."
Derek's hand wrapped around both of them, stroking slow and tight. Stiles' whimpers turned to moans, each one a surprise to his own ears—high, breathy, broken. He couldn't control them, didn't know how to modulate his voice anymore. Every touch from Derek pulled a new sound from his throat.
"That's it," Derek praised, his own voice wrecked. "Let me hear you, baby. Tell me what you want."
"Lube," Stiles managed, the word coming out strangled. "Need—need you inside."
Derek's hand vanished, and Stiles heard the click of the cap, the wet sound of slick being poured. He felt Derek's fingers at his entrance, circling. "Is this what you want?"
"Yes, yes—" Stiles babbled, the words spilling out now that he'd started. "Fuck, Derek, please—"
One finger pushed in, and Stiles' voice cracked on a moan. Derek paused. "Too much?"
"More," Stiles demanded, shocking himself with his own boldness. "Give me more. I can take it."
Derek added a second finger, then a third, stretching him with careful precision. The sound of his fingers moving in and out—slick, obscene, wet—made Stiles blush furiously. "I can hear that," he whispered. "That… that's me. That's what you do to me."
"Good," Derek growled. "Because I'm about to do a lot more."
He pulled his fingers free, and Stiles heard the rustle of the condom wrapper, the snap of latex. Then Derek was pushing inside, slow and steady. The stretch was intense, but Stiles forced himself to breathe through it, to stay present.
"Stiles," Derek gasped, hips stuttering. "The sounds you make—fuck, I could write a whole book just about your noises."
"Write it later," Stiles managed, wrapping his legs around Derek's waist. "Fuck me now."
Derek started to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that had the bed creaking in time. Stiles moaned openly, no longer self-conscious, because every sound he made earned a groan or a growl from Derek. They were having a conversation without hands, without sight—just voice and response, call and answer.
Stiles could hear Derek's breathing, ragged and hitching. He could hear the slap of skin on skin, the wet sound of their bodies joining. He could hear his own moans rising in pitch as Derek angled his thrusts, nailing his prostate.
"Right there—" Stiles cried out. "Fuck, Derek, right there—"
"I've got you," Derek panted, voice strained. "Come on, baby. Let me hear you come."
Stiles' orgasm crashed over him like a wave, pulling a full-throated cry from his lips that he'd never heard himself make before—a raw, broken sound that started deep in his chest and tore out of him with visceral force. He felt it as much as heard it, the vibration of his own voice buzzing through his sternum, a foreign and exhilarating sensation. His cock pulsed between them, painting Derek's stomach with hot, messy ropes of cum that smeared across their abdomens as he arched and trembled.
Above him, Derek's rhythm faltered. His hips stuttered mid-thrust, a groan tearing from his throat that Stiles heard—really heard—for the first time. It was a sound he'd only ever felt before, a rumble in Derek's chest, but now it had texture: low, gravelly, punched-out with desperate restraint.
Derek wasn't supposed to be this close. Stiles knew from their previous nights together—Derek's stamina was life threatening (for Stiles), his control ironclad. He could fuck for hours, drawing out Stiles' pleasure until he was sobbing. Stiles commented on it once that Derek proved that the intense long smut he'd written was in fact not pure fantasy, but could be a reality with Derek.
But tonight was different. If anything's to blame it would be Stiles' voice, begging and pleading and finally crying out his release. It had sent an electric current straight down Derek's cock, short-circuiting his usual restraint. He was already teetering on the edge, and the wet, clutching heat of Stiles' body milking him through his orgasm was almost more than he could bear.
"I'm close," Derek gasped, the words harsh and ragged. "Fuck, baby, the way you sound—I'm not gonna last."
Stiles could hear him. He could hear the strain, the way Derek's breath hitched between each word. He could hear the wet slap of their bodies as Derek started moving again, slower now, deeper, each thrust deliberate as he chased his own peak. The sound was obscene, intimate, a rhythm that had its own voice.
"Derek," Stiles moaned, and the sound of his own voice saying Derek's name while Derek was buried inside him made his spent cock twitch valiantly. "Please. Want to hear you come."
Derek's pace increased, his hips snapping forward with a force that rattled the headboard. The sound of skin on skin grew louder, faster, a percussion track to their ragged breathing. Stiles could hear the low, animal grunts punching out of Derek's chest, each one a little more desperate than the last. He could hear the way Derek's breath stuttered when Stiles clenched down deliberately, could hear the slick slide of his cock pulling out and slamming back in.
"Stiles—fuck—your voice—" Derek's words were dissolving into pure sound now, vowels stretched into groans. "The way you say my name—"
He slammed deep, burying himself to the hilt, and held there, grinding against Stiles' prostate as his orgasm finally crested. The guttural groan that tore from his throat was feral, nearly a growl, and Stiles felt it in his bones as much as heard it through the device. He could hear Derek coming—the way his breath hitched and broke, the low, animal sound of pleasure that seemed to go on and on, the shudder in his voice as his cock pulsed and throbbed inside him, filling the condom with hot, thick spurts.
Derek kept thrusting through it, shallow, erratic movements that gradually slowed as the aftershocks faded. His groans softened into breathless gasps, then into low, satisfied sounds that Stiles had never known existed.
They collapsed together, Derek still buried inside him, both panting. Stiles could hear their heartbeats now—frantic, synchronized, a dual rhythm that filled the quiet room with living proof of what they'd just done. He could hear the wet slide as Derek finally pulled out, the rustle of the condom being removed, the soft snap of latex. He could hear Derek's muttered "Fuck, that was good" as he tied it off.
Stiles watched from the bed, sated and boneless, as Derek tossed the tied condom toward the trash can. It missed, landing on the floor with a soft thwap. A flicker of disappointment curled in Stiles' gut—he wanted to feel it. Wanted to feel the hot, wet pulse of Derek's come filling him up while Derek rode through his orgasm, that delicious feeling of being marked from the inside out. But he'd been the one to insist on the condoms after that first time, when he'd spent what felt like an eternity in the bathroom, come leaking down his thighs, feeling both debauched and irritated by the cleanup. This was easier. Cleaner. More practical.
And yet, as Derek's hand found his stomach and began rubbing circles through the drying stripes of his own release, Stiles wondered if maybe it was a futile attempt.
"We should clean up," Stiles said, his voice still strange to his own ears—too loud in the quiet room, too raw.
"Later," Derek murmured, pulling Stiles against his chest with a possessive arm around his waist. His voice was a low vibration that Stiles felt as much as heard, slightly muffled by the hearing aid but unmistakably his. "Stay."
Stiles squirmed, his practical brain reasserting itself. "Derek, I'm sticky. We're both sticky. If we sleep like this, I'll be glued to your sheets by morning."
"Then I'll buy new sheets." Derek's arm tightened, his lips pressing against Stiles' sweaty temple. "Stay."
The word held weight. Command and plea wrapped up in Derek's gravelly voice—a voice Stiles was still learning, still mapping against the memory of silence. He could hear the possessiveness in it, the tender dominance that had nothing to do with control and everything to do with need.
Stiles sighed, the sound huffing out of him with feigned exasperation. "You're impossible."
"But you love it," he whispered.
Stiles cupped Derek's face in his hands, feeling the sweat on his skin, and spoke the words out loud into the space between them—the space that was no longer silent.
"That I am." It was clearer now, steadier. "I love you, Derek."
Derek kissed him, soft and deep, and murmured against his lips, "I love you, too Stiles."
Derek made a pleased hum that Stiles heard clear as day—a sound of pure contentment that made his chest ache. He let himself be pulled flush against Derek's side, sticky and sated and emotionally wrung out.
"Best five thousand dollars I ever spent," he murmured, and the device picked it up.
Stiles laughed, the sound bright and real and loud. The world beyond the bedroom didn't exist right now. Just the sound of Derek's breathing, the steady thump of his heart, the occasional rustle of sheets as he shifted to pull Stiles closer.
Stiles closed his eyes, letting the symphony of new sounds wash over him. The faint hum of the air conditioner. The distant traffic outside. Derek's soft snore beginning to rumble in his chest. Small, ordinary things he'd forgotten could make noise.
And for the first time in a year, Stiles didn't feel the crushing weight of silence. He felt full.
Notes:
…And that happened. 😳🔥
Just to be clear, they didn’t just have sex… they made love. 😌💕
If you enjoyed this chapter, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Your feedback truly motivates me to keep writing!
Chapter 10 would be posted on December 14th.
Chapter 11 would be posted on December 21st.
See you in the next one!
Chapter 10
Notes:
Hi there! I'm back with the 10th chapter! This chapter is special to me, because Derek get to introduce Stiles to his little group of friends (pack)!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Stiles was vibrating with nerves, his knee bouncing a rhythm against the kitchen counter that Derek felt more than heard. He'd been that way for the past hour, ever since Derek had texted the group chat that he needed everyone to come over for dinner—he had something important to share. They'll be here soon, Derek had signed earlier, and Stiles' hands had gone still before launching into a flurry of anxious questions.
Now Stiles was trying to mentally catalogue everyone Derek had told him about. His lips moved silently as he rehearsed: Erica—manager, PR handler, terrifying in stilettos. Isaac—fellow writer, junior writer Derek had mentored, also acted as his beta reader and occasional editor. Boyd—Erica's boyfriend, worked acquisitions at a major publishing house, quiet but sharp. And Jackson, who Derek had mentioned with a particular eye-roll that Stiles had learned meant complicated history.
"What does Jackson do again?" Stiles asked, the words slightly slurred from disuse, his voice still finding its footing.
Derek looked up from stirring the stew. The sound of Stiles' voice—rough, hesitant, but there—still made his chest tighten three weeks after the hearing aid. "He's working as an associate under his dad's law firm, currently," Derek provided, leaning against the counter.
Huh? Stiles blinked, startled, before his brain caught up. Apparently I said that out loud, he signed, sheepish.
Then his hand flew to his right ear, fingers tapping the hearing aid. "The battery's low. I should charge this," he said aloud, already heading for Derek's bedroom where he'd left his spare chargers.
Derek watched him go, Stiles' retreating form lit by the warm kitchen light. Maybe I'll ask him to move in, Derek thought for the thousandth time, if tonight goes well. It was a conversation he'd been choreographing in his head for weeks, like a scene he couldn't quite get right. These four people—and a handful of others from the publishing world—were the only ones Derek considered close. If Stiles couldn't stand them, or they couldn't see what Derek saw in him...
Derek's chest tightened. He'd never introduced a boyfriend to his friends. Well, maybe because this would be his first boyfriend, but that's beside the point. He never wanted to introduce his past flings or girlfriends before, too. But Stiles wasn't just a boyfriend. He was the quiet that Derek wrote toward, the chaos that made his stories breathe.
Stiles returned without the hearing aid, his hair slightly mussed from pulling the device off. He looked younger like this, more vulnerable. Derek's hands moved automatically, signing as he spoke: "What about when they arrive? Do you want to wear the device?"
Stiles read his lips easily now, the skill honed to a razor's edge. I don't really need to, he signed back, the movements fluid with confidence. I'm getting really better at reading lips, you know. DILF wanted to send me to this lip-reading competition in Ohio, but I told Charice and Darren I'm not going.
Derek frowned. "Why? You should totally go."
Stiles rolled his eyes, a gesture so expressive Derek wanted to kiss the attitude right off him. I'll miss work, I'm working at a factory in case you forgot. They're not really that lenient towards employees.
Derek set down the wooden spoon with a little more force than necessary. "Stiles, for the hundredth time," he said, voice and hands moving in tandem, "you should just ditch the factory and find something new. You have your hearing aid already."
And I can't believe I'm repeating this for the hundredth time, Derek, Stiles signed with exaggerated patience, but I'm in the middle of researching hearing-impaired-friendly companies. Charice is looking for openings within the city.
Derek crossed his arms, mimicking Stiles' stubborn posture. "I still think you should go to Ohio. Just apply for leave."
Stiles threw his hands up. I haven't even been at the factory that long, Derek.
Derek pointed a finger at him, the gesture half-threatening, half-affectionate. "You know what? Fine. Don't go. I'm gonna ask my contacts if they have any remote or work-from-home jobs. If that yields results first, you're applying to that instead."
Stiles' eyes narrowed. Why do you want me to work from home? So you can get your cock warmed anytime you want? Not gonna happen, Derek.
The doorbell rang.
Derek froze, then turned to Stiles with a pointed look. "They're here." He saw Stiles' shoulders tense, the way his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Derek crossed the kitchen in two strides, cupping Stiles' face in his hands. "Don't worry," he signed, voice softening. "They'll like you." He squeezed Stiles' hand, then added with a teasing smirk, "Well, even if they don't, they'll definitely like the stew you made."
Stiles shoved him lightly, but the fear in his eyes eased. He stood, straightening his shirt, and waited in the living room as Derek went to answer the door.
Derek pulled the door open to find Erica, Boyd, and Isaac on his doorstep. Erica held a bottle of expensive wine, her smile sharp and knowing—like a cat who'd already spotted the canary. Boyd had a bakery box tucked under one arm—dessert, because he was thoughtful and also because he never showed up anywhere empty-handed. Isaac just looked curious, his eyes already locked on Derek, waiting for the big announcement.
Derek's stomach did a slow flip. He'd texted the group chat that he needed everyone to come over for something important. He'd deliberately been vague, wanting to explain in person. Now he was questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.
"Where's Jackson?" Derek asked, stalling.
Isaac shrugged. "Ten minutes away. We asked him to get the pizza. Figured if this is some kind of intervention, we should at least have carbs."
Erica pushed past Derek into the foyer, already kicking off her heels. "Now what's so important that you gathered the troops? Did you finally finish that—"
She froze mid-sentence, one shoe still in hand, when she spotted Stiles hovering near the kitchen doorway.
"—manuscript," she finished weakly. "Oh. I didn't know you had a guest."
At the word guest, Boyd and Isaac barged in, nearly tripping over each other to get a look. Boyd's shoes stayed on—he wasn't planning to stay long enough to get comfortable. Isaac just stared, his head tilting in that way he had when he was trying to place a face from a description.
Derek cleared his throat, stepping into the doorway to block their view of Stiles. "Well, this is the important thing I wanted to talk to you guys about."
Erica whipped around to Derek, her eyes lighting up as she squealed—inaudibly, but the vibration of it made Derek's teeth ache. "You didn't tell me you landed another project! Is this the sequel to Velvet? Or the new standalone? Oh my God, is it the multimedia deal? Did you finally—"
"Erica," Derek warned, but she was already pushing past him.
She recovered he composure quickly, perfectly manicured hand extended toward Stiles with a PR smile that could sell ice to Eskimos.
"I'm Erica Reyes," she purred, clasping Stiles' hand before he could react. "I have to say, Derek's been annoyingly tight-lipped about this project. I had to pull teeth just to get the synopsis. Are you the Dev Exec or the Creative Producer? "
Stiles blinked at her, hand halfway to shaking hers. "Creative… producer?"
Erica beamed. "Perfect!" Her smile widened. "Did Derek finally agree to the multimedia adaptation? Because I've been pitching the idea to contact streaming platforms for months, and if you're the one who convinced him—"
"Erica," Derek said again, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
She finally paused, actually looking at Stiles for the first time—really looking. The professional mask slipped, replaced by something sharper. "Wait," she said, turning back to Derek. "I never gave out your address or contact info to anyone. How'd he get a hold of our very anonymous writer?"
The our was telling. Erica had been Derek's manager for five years; she considered Derek her territory, her project, her grumpy little cash cow. During one particularly catastrophic breakup with crazy ex who refused to stay buried, Erica had even taken to calling herself Derek’s third sister and personally stepped in to make sure the message was received: stop bothering Derek. The idea that someone had circumvented her was clearly bugging her.
Derek sighed, the sound loud and pained, echoing in the loft's high ceilings. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's not here because of a project, Erica."
Boyd, ever logical, interjected. "Then an investor? Because if this is about self-publishing the next one, I need to warn you, the market is—"
Derek shook his head, cutting off Boyd and preventing Erica's spiraling speculation. He motioned everyone toward the living room with an impatient wave. "Just... sit down. I'll explain." He pointed at Boyd and Isaac's shoes. "And take your damn shoes off. I just vacuumed."
Isaac hadn't moved from the foyer. He was still staring at Stiles, his expression shifting from curious to something Derek recognized with sinking dread—the look of a man who'd just connected two very damning pieces of evidence and was mentally watching something fascinating unfolding in real-time.
Boyd and Erica obeyed, kicking off their shoes and making their way to the sofa. Erica immediately claimed the armchair, crossing her legs with the precision of a predator settling in. Boyd sank into the middle cushion, the bakery box on his lap. That left the loveseat for Derek and Stiles—deliberately arranged, Derek realized, so they'd have to sit together. Subtle, his friends were not.
Derek sat first, pulling Stiles down beside him. Their thighs pressed together, and Derek felt the tremor running through Stiles' body. He wanted to wrap an arm around him, shield him, but that would be admitting defeat before the battle even started.
Stiles took a breath, straightened his spine, and said into the awkward silence, "Hi, everyone. I'm Stiles Stilinski. Weird name, I know, but it's a nickname. My legal name is—well, it's complicated. Something-Impossible-To-Pronounce Stilinski. My mom had a thing for traditional Polish names, and my dad had a thing for not arguing with her, so—" He made a helpless gesture. "Anyway. No, I'm not a creative—"
"You're Stiles," Isaac said slowly, the words falling like a dropped book in a silent library.
Stiles paused awkwardly, his wave half-finished. "Uh... pardon?"
Erica frowned. "He literally just said that, Isaac. Keep up."
"No. You are Stiles, right? It's you…"
Derek's stomach dropped into his feet. Fuck. Isaac remembered. The mixed-up draft. The character sketch he'd accidentally sent instead of the revised chapter.
Erica, oblivious, waved a hand. "Ignore him, Stiles. He's always been a weirdo. You can continue your introduction."
Stiles opened his mouth, but Isaac cut him off again, voice rising in pitch with excitement. Isaac's gaze swung to Derek, his eyes wide with dawning horror and delight. "Derek… Is this… He's the Stiles? Wait, it's not Stiles anymore, now. You... you changed the name to Dylan O'brien, but it's him."
And then it hit Stiles. His face went from nervous to cherry red in approximately 0.3 seconds. Dylan. That was the name on Derek's manuscript—the one he'd discovered, the one he'd read, the one where the protagonist with the scar and the attitude got thoroughly debauched by a brooding novelist.
Stiles' gaze snapped to Derek, who looked exactly like a man who'd been caught writing thinly-veiled erotica about his boyfriend.
Stiles made a small, strangled noise and looked down at his shoes like they might provide an escape route.
Isaac pointed triumphantly at Derek. "Holy shit, he is!"
Boyd, bless him, looked utterly lost. "What's going on? What did I miss?"
Isaac pulled out his phone, tapping the screen with vindictive glee. "Oh, don't tell me you already forgot when Derek mixed up that draft and sent us his so called 'private projects' instead of the revision?"
Erica gasped, her wine bottle nearly slipped. "You said it was a working name! You pinky-promised it wasn't based on a real person!"
Boyd's face cleared as the pieces clicked. "Oh hell no. Derek, you even wrote the scar exactly as is. Minus ten points for lack of creativity."
"Plus twenty for attention to detail, though," Isaac countered, already pulling out his phone. "The description was chef's kiss accurate. Remember that line about the scar running down his temple to his cheek?"
Stiles was slowly dying of embarrassment, his face currently competing with Erica's lipstick for redness.
Derek slammed his palm on the coffee table, making everyone jump. "Can everyone shut up for a second!"
Erica leaned forward, predatory. "No. I want the details." She turned to Stiles, her tone shifting to something almost gentle. Stiles gulped when her eyes took him in. "First things first—and this is crucial—are you guys a thing? Or is my client being a creepy pervert who writes about strangers?"
Stiles stole a glance at Derek, who gave an encouraging nod. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, and said—voice shaking but clear—"We're pretty new, but yeah. We're a thing."
The room went silent. Then Erica's grin turned absolutely feral. "Oh, Derek. You're so fucked."
"And not in the fun way. Yet." Boyd chimed. "I'll go get the glasses out."
Isaac just held up his phone, showing the group chat. "Jackson's gonna lose his mind when he hears about this. I'm telling him to hurry up with the pizza."
Erica leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with the predatory light of a woman who smelled gossip. "Alright, spill. How'd you two first meet?"
Stiles grinned, and Derek felt his blood pressure spike. That grin was dangerous. That grin was the same one Stiles got when he was about to say something deliberately incendiary.
"Well," Stiles drew the word out, waiting for Boyd to sit down with three wine glasses on his hand, before beginning "our first meeting was actually around here. I was walking home at night through this dark, secluded alley—you know the one behind the old hardware store? Super creepy, barely any lights. And Derek was... following me. I was so startled that I ended up running away."
He paused, letting his story hang in the air like a bad smell.
The room went silent. Erica's wine glass stopped halfway to her lips. The cannoli from the bakery box Boyd was holding stopped, hovering in front of his opened mouth. Isaac made a noise that sounded like a dying cat.
"Eew!" Isaac finally burst out, scooting away from Derek despite not being on the same sofa like he might catch something.
Everyone turned to look at Derek with identical expressions of slack-jawed disgust, their eyes squinting in collective judgment. Erica actually leaned away, clutching her wine bottle like a protective talisman.
Derek's hands flew up in self-defense. "Stiles, if you tell it like that, these idiots are gonna think I'm some registered sex offender!"
"There's no non-pervert explanation for that, Derek," Boyd said flatly, setting his cannoli down into the bakery box, as if he'd lost his appetite. "Even if there is, you write smut about strangers for a living. The jury's already in. You are a pervert."
"I am not a pervert," Derek protested, but even he heard the weakness in his own voice. "Look, just let me explain. It was my first night in the neighborhood. I got lost trying to find the main road, and Stiles was the only person around, so I tried to ask him for directions, but he ran away because he's startled."
Stiles nodded sagely, completely failing to help.
"To be fair, if a six-foot-something guy in a leather jacket started following me down a dark alley, I'd probably pepper-spray first and ask questions later," Erica said.
"Oh, I would've definitely done the same," Isaac chimed in, shuddering. "Probably would've thrown my keys at his face for good measure."
Derek glared at Isaac. "You write psychological thrillers about murder. You're not allowed to judge my meet-cute story."
"I'm not judging," Isaac said, holding up his hands. "And it's not meet-cute, it's meet-true-crime! I'm just saying, from a purely objective standpoint, you have the vibe of a handsome serial killer. It's part of your brand."
Erica pointed at Derek with her wine glass. "See? Even your own protege thinks you're creepy. Stiles, honey, did he at least apologize for traumatizing you?"
Stiles was trying very hard not to laugh, his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. "He did. Eventually. He cornered me the next day at the park when I'm alone and explained what was happening. It was actually kind of adorable."
"Adorable," Boyd repeated, deadpan. "The man stalked you, and you found it adorable." Then he turned to Derek. "This explains so much about Velvet and Claws. Actually this explains your taste in literature in general."
Derek buried his face in his hands. "I did not stalk him. I followed him at a respectful distance while trying to get his attention."
"That's literally the definition of stalking," Erica and Isaac said in unison, then high-fived each other.
Stiles was outright grinning now, eyes a bit frantic trying to keep up with the fast pace of the conversation, but delighting in Derek's public flaying. He leaned back against the sofa cushions, arms crossed, watching his boyfriend get eviscerated by his own friends.
Derek realized with mounting horror that this was his boyfriend's new favorite hobby.
Then the doorbell rang again—Jackson's sharp, impatient triple-ring that sounded like a judge's gavel.
Derek groaned into his hands. "That's probably Jackson with the pizza. And my dignity, which just left out the back door."
"Too late for that," Boyd said, getting up to answer the door. "Your dignity filed for emancipation the moment you wrote 'those cerulean orbs locked onto my soul.'"
"I was twenty-two!" Derek shouted after him, but everyone was already laughing.
Derek sprinted for the front door, nearly tripping over the shoes he'd just made Isaac and Boyd remove. Jackson stood on the doorstep—immaculate as always in a tailored blazer that probably cost more than Derek's couch—balancing five pizza boxes stacked like a greasy Jenga tower.
"I have five pizzas," Jackson announced, his voice carrying the particular sharpness of someone whose time is perpetually being wasted, "and a burning need to know why Isaac just texted me that you're a 'stalker with a credit card.' He also sent a screenshot of your bank statement, which, by the way, is a Federal crime."
"Isaac is a menace and he's fired," Derek muttered, reaching for the pizzas.
Jackson yanked them out of reach. "Paws off, Hale. I saw the group chat. And until further notice I’m maintaining a professional distance from whatever it is Isaac thinks you’re—" He peered past Derek and spotted Stiles in the living room. "—allegedly doing."
Derek groaned. "Just get inside."
Jackson toed off his dress shoes with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd spent his childhood in prep schools with strict mudroom policies. He tossed them aside with his feet—because apparently he still didn't trust Derek touching the pizza boxes—and pushed past Derek, pizza boxes held high like an offering to the gods of carbs and drama.
When Jackson reached the living room, he halted so abruptly that Isaac's cannoli nearly fell off his lap. His gaze locked onto Stiles, who had clearly hoped to hide behind Derek’s shoulder—except Derek was still standing behind Jackson.
Erica pounced. "Stiles, this is Jackson. He's very judgmental, sassy, and is kinda annoying." She ignored Jackson's outraged squawk. "Jackson, this is Stiles. Derek's boyfriend and his muse!"
Stiles waved awkwardly. "Hi."
"Boyfri—" Jackson started.
Erica steamrolled right over him, pivoting to Stiles with theatrical grace. "And since we haven't formally introduced our little pack, this is my boyfriend Boyd, acquisitions editor at Sterling House, and Isaac, who Derek mentors but is actually way better at writing sex scenes than he is."
Jackson turned to Derek with the slow, deliberate movements of a predator who's just spotted the weakest gazelle. "Dude. I didn't know you swung both ways. You do know my best friend Danny Mahealani had the biggest crush on you in college, right? Like, legendarily unrequited. He wrote a whole chapbook about your jawline. Could've introduced you two before."
Derek felt his ears burn. "Uh, I'm flattered, but sorry. Not interested in anyone else right now. Just him."
Jackson's critical gaze swept over Stiles, head to toe. "I can see that. You look different. Looser. Less like you're one typo away from a murder-suicide pact with Microsoft Word." He nodded, magnanimous. "I approve. He's pretty."
Stiles made a sound that was half-laugh, half-strangled squeak at something Isaac said.
Derek rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw his own brain. "Just put the damn pizza on the kitchen table before I throw you out." He walked past Jackson to sit beside Stiles on the sofa.
Jackson sauntered toward the dining area, his nose already twitching. He passed the kitchen island, where Derek's massive cast-iron Dutch oven sat on the stove, still simmering. Jackson lifted the lid with the casual entitlement of someone who'd grown up being told everything was his business.
The scent of beef and spices filled the air, rich and intoxicating.
"Are you guys pranking me?" Jackson yelled from the kitchen, loud enough to wake the neighbors. "We have this much food—well I'll be damned, this smells like beef stew—and you still asked me to buy pizza?"
"Food? What food?" Isaac called back, finally looking up from his phone, which he'd been using to document Derek's humiliation for posterity.
Derek smacked his forehead. "Oh, right. Stiles made some stew. It's got sausage, beef, cabbage, and a disturbing amount of mushrooms. He's been tending it since yesterday."
Isaac was on his feet and halfway to the kitchen before Derek finished the sentence, moving with the single-minded determination of a man who'd been living on ramen and hope.
Erica pivoted to Derek, eyes wide. "He can cook? Where did you find him?"
"I told you," Derek signed, "at the abandoned alley behind—"
"Yes, yes, creepy stalker origin story, we've established that." Erica was already pulling Stiles up from the sofa with surprising strength. "Now, now, what is this amazing stew I've heard about?"
She dragged Stiles toward the kitchen, Derek trailing behind like a worried parent at a zoo. They arrived just in time to see Jackson with a ladle already in hand, scooping up a massive portion, while Isaac was frantically searching for bowls in the wrong cabinet.
"JACKSON! ISAAC! DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING TOUCH THAT STEW!" Erica screamed, her voice hitting a pitch that could shatter glass.
Stiles didn't hear it—of course he didn't, his hearing aid was still charging in the bedroom—but the sheer vibration of that scream traveled through the floorboards and up his spine like an electric shock. He physically jolted.
The herd migrated to the dining area, grumbling. Stiles took a steadying breath and lifted the heavy Dutch oven with both hands. Derek immediately moved to help, but Stiles shot him a look that said I've got this.
The rectangular dining table fit exactly six people, a fact Derek had never appreciated more. Jackson claimed the head seat like a throne, Boyd and Isaac jostled for positions on the long side, and Erica— with the precision of a general deploying troops—shoved Boyd away from the chair beside her.
"Go sit somewhere else, this is for Stiles," she commanded.
Boyd rolled his eyes but obeyed, settling next to Isaac. That left the opposite head for Derek, and the empty seat next to Erica for Stiles. Erica arranged it so he could get more info from Stiles, but he couldn't help but think of this same arrangement for Thanksgiving, or Christmas dinner. Derek at the head of the table, Stiles beside him, his little friend group, Laura and her husband, and Cora as well. Preferably without Peter. Derek felt his hear warm and he could feel his ears burned.
Stiles set the stew pot in the center with a soft thunk, then began ladling portions into the bowls Derek had retrieved. The rich, meaty aroma—smoky kielbasa, tender beef, earthy mushrooms and cabbage slow-cooked for hours—filled the room. Jackson actually whimpered.
When they began tasting the food, everyone was busy talking with a pleased smile. Stiles couldn't really catch every single thing, but he was sure it was compliments out of politeness.
"Thank you for the kind words," Stiles said, his voice still carrying that slight roughness from disuse, "but this is probably one of like... three dishes I can actually cook."
He paused, looking around at the expectant faces. "It's called Bigos. Polish hunter's stew. My mom used to cook traditional Polish food during weekends when I was a kid, and it's my favorite comfort food."
Erica gasped so dramatically that she nearly inhaled a piece of sausage. "And he's European?!" She whirled on Derek with the fury of a woman scorned by underwhelming information. "Derek! Where did you find—"
"At the abandoned alley behind—" Derek started automatically.
Erica threw a hand up. "It's a rhetorical question, you pervert!"
The table erupted. Boyd choked on his stew. Isaac thumped his back while laughing. Jackson pointed his spoon at Derek. "You really can't stop mentioning the creepy alley thing, can you? It's like you're proud of it."
"I'm not!" Derek protested, but his voice was drowned out by the chaos.
Erica turned back to Stiles, her expression shifting from theatrical outrage to genuine interest. "You should tell Boyd how to make this, so I can bully him into recreating it when I'm craving it at 2 AM."
That earned a real, startled chuckle from Stiles. "It's not that complicated. Just takes time and—"
Stiles exclaimed, "Oh! Derek, I forgot about the pierogi!" a little too loud—the word pierogi exploding from his mouth like a gunshot, his voice raw and unmodulated from disuse.
Everyone at the table jolted. Jackson actually dropped his spoon into his stew with a wet clatter. Boyd's chunk of beef meat fell from his hand and rolled across the table like a sad escapee. Isaac made a sound like a stepped-on goose.
"Jesus Christ," Erica muttered, pressing a hand to her chest. "That's pretty loud."
Derek shot her a glare while Stiles, oblivious to the volume, was already on his feet and heading for the fridge with the single-minded determination of a man on a mission. He pulled out one container, then another, stacking them on the counter with the care of someone handling precious artifacts.
Derek stood to help, moving on autopilot. They'd done this dance before—Stiles cooking, Derek assisting, a rhythm they'd fallen into without discussing it. He grabbed the sour cream from the fridge and the extra butter from the door, their movements overlapping in the tight kitchen space.
From the dining table, Boyd watched them with the quiet satisfaction of a man observing a nature documentary. "You two look very domestic."
Jackson, mouth full of stew, swallowed dramatically and pointed his spoon at Boyd. "Kinda like you and Erica the first month of dating, right? When you two finished each other's sentences and shared a single fork like it was normal?"
Isaac cackled, nearly choking on his food. "Oh my God, the fork thing! I forgot about the fork thing. Erica, you literally hissed at me when I tried to use it."
Erica flipped him off without looking away from Stiles and Derek. "That was my fork. And we were bonding."
Derek ignored them, focusing on the task at hand. He and Stiles arranged the pierogi on a large plate—crispy, golden dumplings filled with potato and cheese, pan-fried in butter until the edges were lace-thin and perfect. They worked in silence, the only sound the soft scrape of spatula against ceramic.
Stiles slid the plate into the microwave and set it for one minute. Then they stood there, side by side in the kitchen corner, waiting. The microwave's timer counted down: 60, 59, 58...
Derek glanced at Stiles. Stiles glanced back.
"Hey," Derek said softly, more mouthing the word than saying it.
Stiles' lips curved. "Hey."
The others were still chattering behind them, voices rising and falling like a tide, but in this corner of the kitchen, it felt like they were underwater—quiet, buoyant, alone.
Derek lifted his hands, signing slowly where only Stiles could see: Do you feel uncomfortable? Or maybe dizzy?
Stiles shook his head, his own hands rising to reply: No, no. They're really fun.
Derek's grin turned softer, almost fond. I'm glad you like them. They definitely like you. A bit too much, if I'm being honest.
Stiles' eyes crinkled at the corners, his hands moving in a flurry. Erica's a bit intense. I mean, I could barely read with how fast her lips were moving.
Derek was about to respond when the microwave dinged, the sound sharp and intrusive. He opened the microwave door, letting out a cloud of steam redolent with butter and caramelized onions. He grabbed the plate—hot, even through the towel—and turned to place it on the counter.
Stiles signed, Where'd you put the big plates?
Derek walked to the overhead cabinet, stretching up to grab one. The movement pulled his shirt tight across his shoulders, and he caught Stiles watching him, gaze lingering before darting away.
Stiles signed a thank you, his hands moving in a quick, graceful combination that Derek was starting to recognize as uniquely his. Then he signed something else, the motion definitive: Go back to the others. I'll take care of this.
Derek hesitated, not wanting to leave Stiles alone with the serving, but Stiles nudged him with his hip—a small, confident gesture that said I've got this. So Derek nodded, turning to leave.
Then Jackson's voice cut through the kitchen's peaceful chaos.
"Ummm, what are you guys doing?" The question was casual, but his eyes were fixed on their hands with the laser focus of a man who'd just witnessed something he couldn't quite parse.
Derek froze. Shit. Jackson had caught them. Not just the signing, but the intimacy of it—the way they'd been standing so close, hands moving in their private conversation while the world faded to background noise.
"Nothing," Derek said, perhaps a little too quickly. He pivoted back to the counter, deciding suddenly that Stiles absolutely needed help with the pierogi. "Just, uh, coordinating. Kitchen stuff."
He grabbed the hot plate before Stiles could protest, using the towel as an excuse to keep his hands busy and visible.
When they returned to the table with the steaming plate of pierogi—golden and crispy and smelling like butter and caramelized onions—everyone's eyes went wide. Even Erica, who'd been mid-roast of Boyd's table manners, stopped to stare.
"Take some more bigos too," Stiles said, his voice gaining confidence with every word. "It's not traditional, but you can eat it with the pierogi. The flavors work."
Everyone immediately obeyed, reaching for both dishes with the reverence of people who'd just discovered a new religion. Everyone except Jackson, who was still staring at Derek with that unnervingly observant expression.
"I saw you guys moving your hands like frantically," Jackson said, fingers mimicking a vague fluttering motion. "What were you doing?"
Derek dropped a pierogi onto his plate with a little more force than necessary. "ASL."
Jackson repeated slowly, "ASL... as in..."
"American Sign Language." Derek took a bite, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.
Erica perked up immediately, her business brain kicking into overdrive. "Oh! Is that for that project you want to start? The one that'll definitely be a bestseller and make us not worry about money for a few years? The Deaf protagonist thingy?"
Shit. He remembered Erica and Isaac tagging along before they went to Boyd's birthday party. Derek had said it's about a new project and Erica had catalogued it as a "definite moneymaker."
Isaac leaned forward, stew forgotten. "Wait, you really took the course? I thought you were just researching online."
"I did take the course," Derek admitted, poking at his pierogi. "The teachers are really great."
Jackson's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "But... Stiles was doing that too?"
Derek glanced at Stiles, who was watching the conversational tennis match with barely concealed amusement. "Yeah, Stiles can do ASL too. We took the same institution for our course, different time slots, though."
Erica nodded thoughtfully, already mentally drafting marketing copy. "Perfect, so you can cross-reference notes for authenticity. Brilliant. But wait—" She turned to Stiles, her PR brain finally catching up. "Derek took it for the upcoming project. But what about you, Stiles?"
There was a beat of silence.
Derek set his fork down. He looked at Stiles, who gave him a barely perceptible nod—go ahead, tell them.
"Stiles is Deaf," Derek said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact.
Erica blinked. "Oh. Right. That explains—" Her brain buffered for a solid three seconds. "What?"
All eyes landed on Derek. Boyd set his spoon down slowly, like he was afraid it might explode. Isaac's phone slipped from his hands and clattered onto the table.
"That's not a nice thing to say, Derek," Boyd said carefully, the voice of reason in a room that had just lost all reason.
"What? No—" Derek's hands flew up. "—I'm not insulting him. Stiles took the course because he's Deaf, and he needs to polish his ASL."
Erica let out a disbelieving laugh, the kind that usually preceded her destroying someone's career. "No he's not." She gestured at Stiles with her wine glass. "We literally just had a conversation. He answered my questions. He laughed at my jokes. Deaf people don't—" She stopped herself, but the words hung in the air like a bad smell.
Stiles leaned forward, caught between amusement and exasperation. "I am Deaf, though."
Erica waved a hand, dismissing him. "Okay, I get that you guys are in the lovey-dovey stage where you think it's cute to play along with each other's weird jokes, but that's not funny, Stiles. It's actually kind of offensive."
Derek sighed, long and suffering, then made a sharp hand movement to Stiles—quick, precise, clearly not random gesturing.
Jackson pointed with his fork. "He's doing it again! The hand thing."
Derek was signing: You're getting too good at lip reading, it's kinda scary. You should definitely go to that competition in Ohio.
Everyone watched, transfixed, as Stiles' hands rose in response—his movements slower, more deliberate, but unmistakably the same language: Enough with the competition. What do we do now? They don't believe I'm Deaf.
Boyd's chair scraped back. "You weren't joking," he said slowly, looking at Derek with dawning realization.
Derek nodded, feeling the weight of their collective shock settle over the table.
Stiles suddenly straightened, patting his pocket. "I think the hearing device's got enough charge," he announced to Derek, his voice cutting through the chaos at the table. "I'll wear it so I can hear what they all sound like."
And with that, he simply stood and walked out of the kitchen, leaving behind a table of dumbfounded faces.
Isaac was the first to recover. "Okay, you guys need to stop with this prank because I'm this close to believing Stiles is actually deaf, and if I'm being honest, that's starting to feel like a violation of my trust in reality."
Erica pointed a finger at Derek, her wine glass forgotten. "Yeah, Derek, I have acquaintances who were born Deaf, and they didn't speak as clearly as Stiles even after years of speech therapy. This is—" she made a vague gesture, "—this is too good. He's too natural."
Derek set his napkin down with exaggerated patience. "They can, if they get into a decent facility and actually involve themselves in the courses. They even teach Stiles to lip read. Also, Stiles wasn't born Deaf. He got into a car accident a year ago and has severe conductive hearing loss." He tapped his ear. "He needs the device to hear, but it's not a cure. It's... assisted hearing."
Jackson leaned back, crossing his arms with the smugness of a man who'd just finished law school and wanted everyone to know it. "I'm going to pretend I understand that medical explanation, because technically I'm the most educated person in this room—"
"Barely," Boyd muttered.
"—but that doesn't explain how he could talk to us that well without his hearing device," Jackson continued, undeterred. "He was responding in real time. No delays."
Derek gave him a look that suggested Jackson's expensive education had failed him. "I told you guys. He's lip reading. He's so good at it that the institution asked him to compete in a national competition."
As if on cue, Stiles walked back into the kitchen, the hearing aid now tucked discreetly behind his ear. "Now please start talking so I can hear you," he said, his voice bright with anticipation.
Jackson immediately pointed at the device. "That's just a bone conduction headset. I have one for conference calls."
Stiles smiled sweetly. "Well, Jackson, I believe yours didn't cost almost five thousand dollars, right? And I'm guessing yours doesn't have a setting that lets you hear your own voice for the first time in a year."
Erica, Boyd, and Isaac all started talking at once—questions overlapping, voices rising in pitch, exclamations of disbelief. Stiles stood still, his head tilted as the sounds washed over him, his expression shifting from overwhelmed to delighted.
"It's really lovely to hear your voices," he said, cutting through the noise. "But the pierogi's almost cold now, you guys should eat it before Jackson steals them all."
Erica immediately grabbed three pierogi and stacked them on her plate. "Stiles, you have to come with me when I'm meeting important people for intel purposes. You can read their lips and get information out of them! This is a business opportunity!"
Isaac's eyes lit up. "Didn't know they teach you lip reading at the institution too. That's really cool!"
Stiles nodded, already moving his hands to sign as he spoke. "DILF teaches a lot of things, actually—"
Jackson choked on his stew. "DILF? As in—"
"Deaf Independent Living Foundation," Derek provided quickly, before Jackson could finish that thought. "And yes, the acronym is unfortunately hilarious. We know."
Boyd looked at Derek, then at Stiles, then at the hearing aid. "So let me get this straight. You met a guy in a dark alley, stalked him—"
"Followed," Derek corrected.
"—found out he's Deaf, learned sign language for him, bought him a five-thousand-dollar hearing aid, and now you're both taking courses at an institution with a name that sounds like a porn category?"
Stiles took a bite of pierogi and hummed happily. "Not exactly in the correct order, but that's basically it."
Jackson raised his glass. "To Derek Hale, the most extra person I've ever had the misfortune to know. May your tax write-offs be plentiful and your stalking techniques remain questionably legal."
"To DILF!" Isaac cheered.
Derek buried his face in his hands. "I hate you all so much."
By the time the bigos pot was scraped clean and the pierogi plate held nothing but buttery crumbs, Stiles found himself leaning back in his chair with a fullness that had nothing to do with food—between Isaac's easy laugh, Boyd's quiet acceptance, Jackson's snarky approval, and Erica's theatrical declarations that he was now her "personal intelligence asset," he realized he'd stumbled into something he'd stopped believing he deserved: a loud, teasing, fiercely protective pack who saw not what was missing but what was there, and for the first time in a year of silence, he felt his world grow loud with the sound of belonging.
Notes:
I love Derek's pack members so much! Next update will be dealing with something a lot heavier and emotional. And it's going to be released on December 21st! Do tell me how you find the story :3 Check out my other works as well while you're at it! <3
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