Archive of Our Own

Stiles arches off the bed, spine curving as he reaches blindly for the shelf behind him, fingers scrabbling for something to hold onto. His breath stutters out in a series of tiny, breathy uh-uh-uhs as Derek fucks into him, each thrust hard enough to rock the bed straight into the wall with a dull, rhythmic thud.

Something heavy drops from the shelf above and smacks Stiles square in the face, bouncing off his forehead before landing on the pillow beside him.

"Ouch—what the fuck," Stiles yelps, flinching, hands instinctively flying up to shield himself.

Derek freezes mid-outstroke, entire body locking up as his eyes snap to the pillow. “Don’t look.”

“Oh, buddy,” Stiles answers, pitying. “I'm definitely gonna look.”

Still flat on his back, still very much impaled on Derek’s cock, he twists and sees a—

A fucking steel-reinforced tactical flashlight?

He grabs the flashlight, holds it up, and squints at it.

“Dude,” Stiles says, eyes narrowing in suspicion, “what the actual fuck—are you hiding emergency weapons in my bookshelf?”

“No.”

“No?”

Derek looks shady as hell, eyes locked on the wall and eyebrows drawn tightly together in a frown.

“Maybe your dad put it there.”

Stiles calls bullshit.

“I call bullshit,” he says, holding up the flashlight in front of Derek’s face. “Why would my dad put an emergency flashlight in my room, Derek?”

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Derek snaps, clearly flustered. “Maybe he put it there for emergencies.”

Derek’s face is pale, a thin sheen of sweat glistening along the sharp, handsome planes of his face. His jaw is tight, his eyes still fixed on the wall.

Stiles sighs. He glances down at the flashlight thoughtfully, bites his lip.

“Yeah, come to think of it,” he says slowly, “we were totally talking about, you know, always being prepared for anything.”

Derek’s gaze flickers, cautious. “Yeah?”

There’s a tentative note of hope in his voice that tugs at Stiles’ heart-strings.

“Absolutely,” he replies casually. “And my dad knows how I’m always working on honing my survival skills for the inevitable upcoming zombie apocalypse.”

“Prepared is good,” Derek says gruffly. “You never know.”

If his hearing was a million times better, Stiles is pretty sure he’d hear his own heart gain a tiny crack, because Derek suddenly looks all sad and that makes Stiles super sad.

"Come on, wolfy," he says, patting Derek’s butt encouragingly. "This ass ain't gonna fuck itself. Get to it, big boy.”

When Derek stands to leave a few hours later, Stiles waits until the window slides shut, listening for the familiar sound of his Camaro rumbling to life. Then, very carefully, he rummages through his tangled sheets, feeling around until his fingers close around cold metal.

Pulling it out, Stiles turns it over in his hands, inspecting it more closely this time. It’s heavier than it looks, clearly real military-grade, built to survive actual freaking war zones. Frowning, he rolls it in his palm, thumb tracing the grooves in the casing, the slight worn-down edge near the base.

Tiny, almost too faint to notice, engraved just along the barrel—

M.H.

Stiles makes a faint, surprised noise.

M.H.

Staring at it, something tight and heavy settles in his chest. His fingers tighten around the flashlight, absently rubbing over the initials.

He exhales slowly.

"…Fuck."

They don’t talk about it after.

Derek clearly doesn’t want to, and since Stiles has no idea what to say, he keeps his mouth shut.

But he thinks about it.

Not about who the flashlight belonged to, not the tiny, fading letters etched into the metal.

It’s not exactly rocket science.

He knew Derek’s dad, loosely, before the fire—the way most people in small towns know each other. If not well, then at least by name, or by reputation.

Michael Hale.

A stay-at-home dad—Stiles remembers that much. Always smiling, always had a kind word for everyone he met. He also remembers how people talked and whispered behind his back, the scandal of a man staying home to raise his kids while his wife handled the real work.

Stiles always thought it was kind of cool, though—but then again, he’s always had an unhealthy admiration for people who refuse to stay confined within society's narrow unwritten laws.

So, even though they don’t talk about it after, Stiles doesn’t think much about the who.

He thinks mostly about the why.

It happens again three weeks later, but this time, he doesn’t say anything.

Stiles already knows that Derek knows that he knows. Derek may be a peanut-head when it comes to anything holding even the slightest bit of emotional weight (or picking out appropriately sized jeans), but he’s not stupid.

Touching the necklace hesitantly, Stiles lets the cool gold chain slide between his fingers, catching faintly on the ridges of his skin.

He’d found it in the bottom left drawer of his desk, draped around an upside-down frame with a photograph of his mom.

Before today, it had been a long time since he had the balls to look at her picture.

Oh, he’d tried, back when it still hurt so much it felt like someone had taken a crowbar to his ribs and just left him there to die. The frame used to sit right by his bed, so close that he could reach out in the middle of the night and try to pretend, just for a second, that she was still there.

He remembers that the stillness of it, the unmoving capture of her face, only made it worse—only highlighted every single way she was gone.

So he’d put the picture in the drawer.

Closed it.

Tried not to think about her.

In hindsight, it was, obviously, a shit plan, but ten-year-old Stiles hadn’t known any better way to handle his feelings.

And apparently, eighteen-year-old Stiles doesn’t know any better way either.

He sinks down on the chair by his desk, the wheels squeaking as he pulls himself closer. His fingers rub at his eyes, exhaustion pressing down on him like a wet blanket, before he lets out a sigh and reaches for the frame.

He sets the picture upright on the desk, carefully adjusting it—because there’s no way in hell it’s going back on the nightstand. His mom doesn’t need front-row seats to what happens in that particular corner of the room.

"Sorry, Mom," he mutters under his breath.

Rolling his eyes at himself, he nudges the frame with one finger, angling it toward the window instead—because, really, even in picture form, some things are just better left unseen.

With a sigh, he slips the necklace over his head, making sure that the heart-shaped charm rests the right way on the outside of his t-shirt.

"Okay," he says out loud, and feels a restless tremor of anticipation surge through his veins, like a flurry of moth-like wings stirring in the hollow of his ribs. “Let’s do this shit.”

It’s a tentative, fragile thing, what they have together. Nothing more than the bare bones of something that might, in a different world, be worth defining.

Which means they fuck a lot, but not much else.

Stiles is okay with it, but he also knows himself pretty well by now, and enforcing a clear divide between sex and feelings has never been his vibe.

Derek, though—Derek is skittish. A bunny-rabbit-heart beating fast, fast, fast beneath the sharp teeth and claws of a wolf’s costume. Stiles sees it, even if Derek pretends otherwise.

So Stiles settles.

Settles for fast, desperate fucks, for Derek’s ninja-level disappearing acts the second his dick softens in Stiles' ass, for the chill of his bedroom after the window creaks shut behind him.

It’s fine though.

It’s enough.

Except sometimes, in the heavy quiet of early morning, when the sheets are still warm and the scent of Derek lingers in the air—sometimes, he can’t help but want more. And sometimes, Stiles can’t help but think that Derek wants that, too, even if he knows Derek might never be able to say it.

Not in words, at least.

But maybe in gestures?

Maybe in a battered old flashlight, tucked away behind the books on Stiles’ shelf, maybe in the solemn weight of a heart-shaped pendant on a golden chain wrapped around a picture carrying his own grief—relics of long-gone childhoods that ended too soon, left behind by death and never reclaimed.

And Stiles can’t wave a magic wand and bring Derek’s family back, no matter how much he wishes he could—but maybe, just maybe, he can help him salvage the pieces of it that's still left?

Because while Derek never talks about the past, and Stiles knows what little of it remains is locked away in places no one is allowed to reach, he can’t help but feel like Derek is talking to him anyway—just not with words, but with trust.

Maybe it’s nothing—but maybe it could be something?

Maybe this is the closest Derek can come to placing his heart in someone else’s hands.

And if that’s the case, Stiles figures the only way to make Derek believe he’ll hold it carefully is to offer up his own first. Not in gestures, but in the only currency he's ever been fluent in. His sleight of hand has never been in what he doesn’t say, but in what he does.

So that’s what he’ll do.

Since Derek has so very few of his own, Stiles will just have to share his own words first.

It takes Stiles one week and three days to work up the guts to wear the necklace outside the safe confines of his bedroom.

"You can do this," he mutters to his reflection, palms clammy where they grip the edge of the sink.

From the doorway, his dad’s voice cuts through. "Who are you talking to?"

Stiles startles, nearly sending his toothbrush clattering into the sink. "Uh, myself?" He clears his throat, straightening the cup with fumbling fingers. "You know, standard pep talk. Very normal, very healthy—all the best people do it."

"Right." His dad squints. "And how’s that working out for you?"

Hesitating, his fingers ghost over the delicate chain where it rests nestled in the dip of his throat, the small heart-shaped pendant lying cool and unfamiliar against his skin. Then, with a sigh, Stiles glances back at his reflection.

"Jury’s still out on that one."

When time does come in the form of a pack meeting, Stiles arrives twenty minutes late, despite specifically planning to get to Derek’s before the rest of the horde. He’d wanted to be early to test the waters a bit, gauge Derek’s reaction before anyone else could notice it. If the necklace set him off in some horrible, emotionally compromised kind of way, Stiles figured he’d have time to balance it out.

You know.

With his ass.

Which usually cheers Derek right back up when he’s in a pissy mood.

His original plan, however, gets completely shot to hell. Not only is he late, but he also loses any chance of sneaking in quietly and lurking in a dark corner like any reasonable person with a shady agenda would.

With their freakishly sharp hearing, the entire pack naturally clocked his arrival ten minutes before he even parked his Jeep. So when he pushes open the door, they’re already there—lined up like a goddamn firing squad, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, expressions locked and loaded with judgment.

Fucking werewolves.

"Hi guys," Stiles says, flashing a grin. "My, what big eyes you have. All the better to glare at me with, I assume?"

A chorus of unimpressed glares do indeed greet him before anyone bothers responding further.

“You’re late,” Isaac eventually says, yanking at his scarf with sharp, irritated movements. “Derek made us do kettlebell walking coils while we waited for you.”

"Unforeseen circumstances—aka my life being a never-ending disaster because of werewolf crap—delayed my arrival," Stiles explains primly, raising his chin. He flicks a hand toward them in a shooing motion. "Now, move it, you overgrown fur rugs. Some of us actually use doors like civilized beings.”

God, he’s not even surprised at their rude behavior. Derek is kind of a shitty Alpha Daddy. Expecting him to instill manners in a pack of feral mutts might be hoping for a bit much when they still treat indoor furniture like optional seating.

Jackson, however? Yeah, that’s a whole different can of worms.

For context, Stiles and Jackson’s mutual disdain predates werewolves, kanimas, and any other supernatural bullshit. Their relationship was forged in the fires of elementary school gym class, battle-tested through years of ruthless mockery, and, once—memorably—cemented with a broken nose.

At this point, it’s basically their love language—insults, taunts, and the occasional shove.

It’s a vibe.

Still, he’s a little taken aback when the first thing out of Jackson’s mouth is:

"Nice necklace, Stilinski. You wearing matching panties too?"

Rolling his eyes, Stiles shoulders past the horde of wolves crowding the doorway, tossing over his shoulder, “Pink, actually. The gold ones got dirty the last time I fucked your mom.”

Jackson’s mouth opens, but before he can retaliate, Stiles sees Lydia’s elbow dig into his ribs.

"I think it’s beautiful, Stiles," she says and takes his hand in hers.

Her voice is unusually soft, and when Stiles glances over, her eyes are warm and a little too knowing, her smile just the tiniest bit unsteady—and yeah, there’s a reason Lydia Martin is going to take over the world one day.

How she knows is impossible to tell, but it’s Lydia. Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if she’s somehow mastered the art of telepathy during her weekly Saturday-at-noon mani-pedi appointment purely out of boredom and a deep-seated need to know everything before anyone else.

His fingers tighten around hers in a tight squeeze, and he mutters a quick, “Thanks.”

"You’re both acting weird," Jackson sneers, arms crossing tightly over his chest. He squints at Stiles, expression caught somewhere between suspicion and mild disgust. "Well, weirder in Stilinski’s case."

Stiles’ hand goes to his neck, fingers fidgeting nervously with the tiny charm.
It’s ridiculous, the way his pulse thrums wildly beneath his skin, and he knows—he knows—the wolves can hear it.

It kind of sucks, because he hadn’t expected anyone but Derek to care. To them, it’s just a damn necklace. Nothing worth the way his palms sweat, the way his throat tightens, the way his stomach twists itself into tiny knots.

“Shut up, Jackson,” he hears Derek growl.

Stiles' eyes snap up.

All the way across the room, leaning against the back wall, Derek stands with his arms crossed—posture casual and expression carefully neutral, but his gaze is fixed, unwavering and locked onto Stiles.

There’s the barest upturn at the corner of Derek’s mouth, a flicker of something warm behind his otherwise impassive stare. Then, almost imperceptibly, he tilts his head in a small, silent nod.

Something in Stiles settles, and his own lips quirk in response.

"What?" Jackson smirks, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Derek before turning back to Stiles. "I was just asking a question. Didn't realize Stilinski needed his personal Sugar Daddy to come rushing to his rescue.”

"Excuse you, we much prefer the term Sugar Alpha," Stiles replies jauntily. "If you’re trying to insult us, at least use the correct hierarchical terms."

"Boys." Lydia gives a weary sigh. “Can we not?”

"My apologies," Jackson drawls, barely hiding the smirk still tugging at his lips. "Please ask your Sugar Alpha to tuck his dick away and kindly enlighten us on what the hell is up with the necklace."

See, Stiles knows Jackson. It’s not like he actually gives a shit about the necklace itself—not really. But he does care about being in the know. His deep-rooted childhood abandonment issues haven’t exactly meshed well with his inner wolf. It’s always been a thing, but now his bite comes with extra aggression, sharper teeth, and, possibly, a little residual lizard-related trauma.

And Stiles can be magnanimous. Sometimes. Potentially. On rare occasions. When the stars align and he’s feeling particularly benevolent—which, lucky for Jackson, might just be right now.

Especially since they’ve been kind of pseudo-friends ever since Jackson saved him from death by mountain troll—and also because Stiles once walked in on him furiously jerking it to a YouTube documentary about the mating habits of cuttlefish and, being the absolute saint that he is, chose to take that mortifying secret to the grave—he figures he can indulge him.

But mostly because Derek is definitely sneaking him some covert, curious-slash-wary glances, despite his best efforts to pretend he’s the picture of indifference.

Which is why Stiles pastes on a too-bright smile and throws out a casual, “Fine.”

“Get on with it,” Jackson says, but there’s a smug little glint in his eyes, like he’s extremely pleased at Stiles’ sudden compliance.

"Sure," Stiles replies, flashing a smirk. "As long as Jackson doesn’t burst into tears again. That was seriously super awkward for everyone last time."

Jackson scowls. "I was cutting onions."

"Yeah, sure." Stiles shifts restlessly, hooking an arm across his chest, fingers scrubbing nervously at his opposite shoulder. "Whatever you say, dude."

Jackson’s gaze flickers to Stiles’ hand, a frown twitching at his brow before he smooths it away. Instead of commenting, he moves just slightly closer, his arm brushing against Stiles’ in a way that almost reads as comforting until he says:

"Don’t be such a fucking pussy." The words are sharp but his tone is just a fraction softer than usual. "You once killed a wendigo with a tire iron. Get it together."

Stiles huffs out a breath and bumps their shoulders together, muttering wryly, "I'd take ten wendigos and that deranged witch we caught milking possums under the full moon over this any day."

With a snort, Jackson shoves him away. "Stop stalling, cumbucket.”

Stiles grimaces. “Fuck you, Jackson.”

“Later,” Jackson says with an easy smile. “We're discussing your sudden affinity for women's jewelry now.”

“Shut up,” Stiles snaps, then grinds his teeth together and forces out, “My mom–”

And immediately regrets it when his voice catches, barely more than a hitch, but enough to make his throat feel tight and prickly. His fingers twitch at his sides before he shoves them into his pockets, then pulls them out just as quickly.

Clearing his throat, Stiles shifts on his feet. “Fuck,” he exhales sharply.

This—this right here—is exactly why he doesn’t talk about her. Because even after years and years and years, even after all this time and distance, it still fucks him up to talk about her, and no matter how much he pretends otherwise, it never gets any fucking easier.

"Who's crying now," Jackson mumbles under his breath, but the bite in his words is dulled by the way his fingers brush—just briefly—against Stiles’ back. A fleeting press between his shoulder blades, barely there, before they’re gone.

"You okay, man?"

A warm hand curls around the back of his neck, fingers pressing into his skin firmly. With a smile, Stiles tilts his head slightly, and there’s Scott—standing close, brows drawn together in a worried frown.

“Peachy,” Stiles says, and lets out a faint laugh.

Stiles gets Scott’s apprehension. He really does. They’ve known each other since diapers, and in all that time, he’s only mentioned his mom once. And even then, he doesn’t really remember most of it—just the burn of alcohol in his throat, the way the world blurred at the edges, and the nausea churning unpleasantly in his gut.

"You're lying," Scott whispers, low and quiet with concern.

With a soft snort, Stiles hooks an arm around Scott’s waist and tugs him in close. "Stop being such a worrywart," he mutters, resting his chin on Scott’s shoulder for the briefest second before pulling back. “I'm fine—seriously.”

Scott's grin is wide and bright, his nose scrunching up playfully. "That’s worry-wolf to you, dude," he replies, warmth threading through his voice.

"Alright," Stiles says, hand coming up to scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck. "This shit's getting maudlin as fuck. So how about you all stop interrupting me so we can get to the tacos and movies part of this little pow-wow?"

"You got this." Scott flashes him a quick thumbs up. "Love you, bro."

“Jesus, why don’t you two just butt-fuck already and get it over with?” Jackson grumbles.

“Dude,” Scott stresses, eyes wide. “Derek would kill me.”

“Yes,” Derek responds flatly.

Stiles claps a hand to his chest. “You hear that, Scott? He’d kill for me. That’s love, right there.”

“That’s murder,” Scott corrects, glaring at Derek.

“Eh,” Stiles says. “Potato, po-tah-to.”

"Still stalling, spunkmuppet," Jackson interjects, eyebrow raised expectantly.

There’s a murmur of agreement from around the room, and Stiles rolls his eyes.

Fine.

He figures this is like most things that scare the absolute shit out of you—standing at the edge, heart in your throat, every instinct screaming nope, abort, bad idea, but knowing, deep down, that the only way through is through.

Sometimes, you just have to fucking go. Take the leap, hope the ground doesn’t betray you, and trust—blindly, stupidly, maybe even recklessly—that it’ll all work out in the end.

Or at the very least, that you won’t splatter too hard on the way down.

So Stiles takes a deep breath, listens to it rattle anxiously in his lungs, and then just—goes.

"So, my mom used to say that things… they’re just things," he says, voice holding steady this time even as his fingers fidget, thumb skimming over the heart hanging around his neck. "Good things, shitty things. Expensive, dirt cheap, priceless. Whatever. End of the day, they’re just objects, right?"

"Right," Jackson agrees slowly, eyes narrowing with obvious skepticism. “So?”

Stiles knows this next part is going to make them think the whole thing is about him. That the second the words leave his mouth, they’ll assume the necklace ties back to his loss, his mother, his grief. And that’s okay.

Fucking let them.

He’ll gladly play the emotional decoy if it means keeping the spotlight off Derek, letting him cling to his walls of stoic martyrdom and man-pain a little longer. If Derek wants to suffer in silence like some ghost of a tragic, broody novel protagonist, that’s his business. Stiles, meanwhile, is sticking to his fucking plan, even though Derek’s currently rocking the panicked, tense-jawed look of a runaway bride.

It would be cute—endearing, even—if it wasn’t so devastatingly tragic. Like watching a wounded animal try to pretend it’s not bleeding, all stiff movements and stubborn pride.

Bless Derek’s emotionally constipated heart.

Truly.

Stiles would send thoughts and prayers, but let’s be real—there’s no saving that level of repression.

At least he makes up for it by being fantastic in bed.

"Jackson, be quiet and let him speak," Lydia says sharply from somewhere behind, her tone crisp and authoritative. "Some of us are capable of engaging with emotional nuance without the constant need for juvenile commentary."

"Thank you, Lydia," Stiles says, glancing over his shoulder with a smile.

"You're welcome," Lydia says simply, then makes a small, precise gesture with her hand—her fingers flicking forward in a go on motion. "Now, kindly do proceed. I'm waiting, and I would appreciate clarity over stalling.”

"Got it, cap," Stiles says, lifting his hand in a salute. "No stalling. Scout’s honor—wait, I was never a scout. Whatever. You get it."

"Finally," Jackson mutters.

“Okay, so, uh…”

Stiles’ voice trails off as his gaze drops, settling on the toe of his worn sneaker as it scuffs absently at a crack in the concrete.

“So,” he continues, quieter now, “she used to say that things are just things—at least until someone treasures them enough to carry on the memories they hold.”

There's a small, choked sound from the back of the room. Stiles glances up instinctively, catching Derek’s guarded gaze, and offers him a small, crooked half-smile before quickly ducking his head again, feeling the telltale warmth of embarrassment crawling slowly up his neck.

God, baring his soul for the sake of love and, hopefully, a stellar dicking later, is the worst kind of public humiliation.

“That’s what I’m doing with the necklace, I guess,” Stiles says. “Carrying it on. Because, you know… I really think this person is someone worth remembering.”

If Derek is strong enough to share a piece of his mom with him—if he’s strong enough to let him hold even a fraction of what he’s lost—then Stiles will make goddamn sure he's strong enough to help Derek carry it.

Later, after everyone has gone home and the sun has long since dipped below the rooftops outside Derek’s massive windows, Stiles climbs the winding spiral staircase to find him sitting on the bed, staring at the wall like the pathologically avoidant idiot he insists on being.

"My mom died on the eleventh of April at 10:43 PM," Stiles announces firmly, then snorts. "Okay, wow, that sounded unnecessarily dramatic, but whatever—you get the point."

Surprisingly, saying it out loud doesn't hurt as much as he expected. They're just words, after all. Whether he says them or not, it doesn't change anything—doesn't erase the fact she's gone, has been gone, for years now.

It's strange, really, how something that’s lived in silence for so long can feel both heavier and lighter once spoken out loud.

"Your birthday,” Derek says quietly.

"Yeah," Stiles confirms in a soft tone as he sinks down onto the bed, close enough that their knees brush together. "Hence, you know, my whole presence at the hospital that day."

"Tell me what happened.”

At first glance, Derek looks closed-off, almost defeated—shoulders hunched, arms braced on his knees, hands clasped loosely between his thighs. But when Stiles looks over, he catches the subtle shift of Derek’s head turned just slightly toward him, notices the guarded but unmistakable curiosity in his eyes. It’s careful, hesitant—like Derek’s quietly testing whether this is a boundary he's even allowed to approach, let alone cross.

"Yeah," Stiles says slowly, mouth turning up into a faint smile. "That's—honestly, that's kind of a fucked-up story. Even by our incredibly low standards."

He drops his gaze down to the carpet, where his sneakers are currently digging little grooves into the plush bedroom floor. Technically, Derek gets all huffy and puffy whenever Stiles blatantly ignores his no-shoes-in-the-bedroom rule—but right now, Derek isn't saying a word, isn't even glaring at him, and somehow, that's making Stiles feel a bit off-balance.

"I'm pretty fucked up."

There's a faint curl to the corner of Derek's lips, something wry and self-deprecating lurking in the shadows of his face, but the words are spoken with such flat, blunt certainty that Stiles can't help the helpless grin tugging insistently at his mouth.

“That you are.”

Nudging Derek's knee with his own, Stiles reaches over and wiggles his fingers into the small space between Derek’s clasped hands. He lets his thumb run down in a slow, absent-minded stroke across the ridge of Derek’s hand, brushing against the small, soft hairs along his skin.

"You’re lucky I like you anyway,” he adds in a low murmur.

Derek stiffens for a fraction of a second, hesitation flickering across his face, but then slowly he relaxes, unwinding just enough to twine their fingers together.

His grip on Stiles' hand flexes just slightly before he mutters, grudgingly, "I like you too.”

It sounds so reluctant, so deeply put-upon, that Stiles has to bite back a laugh. "Wow," he says. "Romantic. I think I just swooned."

Still, the abrupt thump-thump of his heart at Derek’s words feels like a living, wild thing—ferocious and restless, pressing up against his ribs like something trying to break free.

It would be embarrassing if not for the way Derek’s eyes flick up, catching on the quick rise and fall of his breath, the fast, disclosing rhythm beneath his skin. The sharp corners of his lips twitch, just enough for a minuscule, almost fond smirk to slip through, softening something in the edges of his expression.

“Yeah, so, there’s also that,” Stiles comments lightly, rubbing at his chest.

Derek hums. “It’s loud.”

“Sorry.” Stiles huffs out a small laugh, hand scrubbing across his chin thoughtfully. “I can keep my heart out of my ass if that’s what you want though? I mean, I'd be totally down for that. We don’t have to make it a thing.”

"Is that what you think I want?” Derek looks up at him, arching an eyebrow.

"I don’t know," Stiles says, then adds cheekily, “I think what you want is my amazingly fuckable bubble-butt?”

“Stiles.”

“You want the twelve-inch super massive schlong between my legs?”

If it weren’t completely outside of Derek’s comfort zone to engage in human expressions, Stiles is pretty sure he’d be getting an eye-roll aimed directly at his face right now.

"Maybe it was your big mouth,” Derek says, noncommittal.

Stiles gasps. “Dude, inappropriate. I'm trying to have a conversation about my dead mom over here.”

Derek's expression shifts, turning distinctly grumpy—brows furrowing, mouth flattening into a familiar scowl.

"You started it," he grunts out.

Stiles makes a faint sound in agreement. “She wouldn’t have minded though,” he says. “My mom was very sex-positive.”

"You’re changing the subject," Derek comments, tone gentle in a way Stiles didn’t know he was capable of.

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles agrees, and his throat feels thick when he tries to swallow.

"Tell me about your mom, Stiles."

Stiles looks out the window, watching the moon hang heavy and half-full over the skyline, its pale glow washing out the stars.

“Okay—fuck, so my dad, he kind of had to work a lot, you know? Because of the hospital bills.”

The words tumble out in a rush. He runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching slightly, then lets the hand drop to his side with a soft, frustrated exhale. His foot bounces once, then twice, before he catches himself and stills it.

"It’s, like, really fucked-up how dying ends up being more expensive than actually being alive," he adds, voice going slightly dry and bitter. "But it is. Hospitals, meds, even the fucking funeral. Everything costs money. Like, you lose someone and then—bam—get hit with an invoice for the privilege.”

The bed moves as Derek shifts, the warmth of his body pressing in tight. A moment later, his fingers find Stiles' back, sliding over the fabric of his t-shirt, trailing absently along the ridges of his spine.

"Yeah," Derek mumbles.

“So there really wasn’t a lot of time for, well… uh, me, I guess.” Stiles squeezes the hand tangled with his own, fingers tightening for just a second before loosening again. “Which sucked, but it was what it was, you know?"

"You were there alone," Derek states, and there’s something in his voice—quiet, razor-tipped, edged with faint disdain.

"Well, yeah." Stiles shrugs, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans, winding it tight around his fingertip. "Usually, I guess? He’d promised to take me on my birthday though."

The hand caressing his back stills for just a second then resumes, a fraction heavier, before Derek says disapprovingly, "But he didn’t."

“Hey, come on,” Stiles protests gently, catching the tight set of Derek’s jaw, the way his brows knit together. “Melissa usually kept an eye out for me, and I was a real hit with the geriatrics on the fifth floor—they totally said I brought new life into the place!”

That gets him something, at least—a small upturn of the corner of Derek’s mouth. Stiles will absolutely take a point for that because, in his book, that’s what a goddamn win looks like.

“Anyway," Stiles continues. "As you can imagine, he got called in and—and my mom, you know, she hadn’t recognized me for months at that point.”

He allows himself to fall silent after that. The words feel stuck in his throat, lodged somewhere behind his ribs, like they’ve gotten caught on the way out. It’s not that he doesn’t want to say them—he does, or at least thinks he does—it’s just that forming them feels fucking impossible.

“You okay?”

Breathing in, slow and shallow, Stiles listens to the faint, uneven whistle as his lungs expand—air catching for just a second before it pushes through. He exhales long and controlled, trying to force the tension out with it.

"No—God, it’s stupid," Stiles mutters. "It’s been eight fucking years."

"You set your sleeve on fire once,” Derek replies. “That was dumber.”

“Hah, was that a joke?” Stiles exclaims, eyes widening in exaggerated disbelief. “I knew there had to be humor hidden somewhere under all that leather.”

“It’s to hide my clown suit,” Derek says in an even tone. “The leather is a decoy.”

“That’s a horrifying image,” Stiles mumbles, aiming for levity but probably failing horribly. “You in a clown suit.”

He considers forcing a laugh, just for the principle of the thing. Honestly, dude kind of deserves it—this might be the first joke he’s told in six years—but somehow, he doesn’t think Derek would appreciate it.

"She called me a monster," is what Stiles says instead, and though he tries to keep his voice neutral, it still feels like something ugly and shameful to admit. "She screamed at me to get out, but I didn’t. I didn’t, and then she was just… dead.”

Derek watches him with this look, quiet and unreadable, something dark and fathomless shifting behind his eyes that Stiles can’t parse at all.

"The last thing she ever said to me was that she hated me," Stiles says, twisting their joined hands, turning them over, then back again—and again, and again, and again.

Derek lets him, for a moment—then stills him with a gentle press of his thumb.

"And I guess—I guess a part of me just took that with me, you know? Like that became a representation of our entire relationship."

The silence that follows stretches long, but Stiles doesn’t mind. There’s nothing Derek could say to make it better—nothing anyone could say, really. And they both know it. Because while Stiles lost half his family eight years ago, Derek watched all of his burn. If anyone understands, it’s him.

"You were right," Derek says eventually.

"About what?"

"That’s a pretty fucked up story."

“Dude.” Stiles barks a harsh, unexpected laugh, slipping out before he can stop it—then slaps a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. “Not as fucked up as watching your entire fucking family die, though.”

“True,” Derek snorts. “Very fucking true.”

A sudden breath of laughter trickles out after it, quiet and faint, like Derek didn’t mean to, and Stiles thinks it might be the loveliest sound he’s ever heard.

He doesn’t know if this will make a difference in the end, but it’s nice, still, sharing with someone who knows what it’s like to live with holes inside your heart that refuses to heal. And while he knows that he can’t reach into Derek and pull the pain out like a splinter, he can at least hold his own out in the open—aching, messy, unresolved—and let Derek see it. Like, ‘Hey, here’s my box of broken shit. You don’t have to keep yours locked away, either’.

"My youngest sister," Derek says, lips curved up in a small, almost wistful smile. “Lou. She was a Christmas baby, and she hated it.”

"Sucks."

"Yeah," Derek murmurs. His gaze drifts for a second, like he’s remembering something distant. "She decided when she was five that our parents had made a mistake. Obviously, she was born on July 6th."

“Well, duh, of course she was," Stiles agrees, grinning slightly. "Sounds like my kind of girl. Unquestionably a bona fide hellraiser."

“Stiles.”

“Yeah.”

“October ninth,” Derek mutters, leveling Stiles with a glare like he dares him to argue. “Obviously, that’s your birthday.”

“I don’t think that's how it works, big guy," Stiles replies wryly.

“Worked for Lou.”

Derek looks at him like if Stiles so much as thinks about resisting, he will personally grab the fabric of reality with both hands, wrestle the very concept of time into submission, and force the universe to comply.

"I think she would have said that’s exactly how it works, Stiles."

Ever since their little heart-to-heart about Stiles’ mom, Derek seems to have developed a quiet, simmering grudge against his dad.

It’s not outright hostility—because in true Derek Hale fashion, that would likely involve claws and a distinct lack of survivors—but it’s a near thing. Since Stiles’ dad remains blissfully unaware that a perpetually grumpy, 24-year-old werewolf is regularly rearranging his son’s insides, Derek’s angry resentment mostly just reads as unhinged.

Stiles, for his part, finds the whole thing hilarious. Since it would be deeply suspicious to be seen out and about with Derek too often, he's unfortunately not been privy to a firsthand view of the ongoing one-sided Cold War between his dad and his sort-of-boyfriend.

Instead, he’s had to rely on a combination of town gossip, a few well-placed spies monitoring his dad’s questionable dietary choices, and, most importantly, CCTV camera footage sent by an increasingly entertained Danny Mahealani.

It's the best entertainment Stiles has had in years.

There’s been furious glares across gas stations, barely restrained growls while standing in line for overpriced coffee at Bean & Brew, and, most memorably, a full-contact hit-and-run with grocery carts in the middle of Walmart.

To his father’s credit, he’d merely righted himself, sighed, and muttered something that looked suspiciously like, “Goddamn hipsters.”

Derek on the other hand—stone-faced and impassive—had slowly backed away to hide away in the household cleaning section, angrily grabbing a bottle of Fabuloso Multi Surface All Purpose Floor Cleaner in Watermelon on his way, even though Stiles knows artificial scents make his nose itch.

However, after the Walmart incident, Stiles figures enough is enough. It's been fun, truly, but after full-contact grocery cart warfare in aisle five, he’s starting to think an intervention might be in order.

“Derek.”

Stiles drags out a chair and sits down opposite Derek, who’s flipping through a dog-eared copy of The Brothers Karamazov.

“Really,” he adds, giving the book a skeptical side eye. “Dostoevsky?”

Nothing screams healthy coping mechanisms like voluntarily subjecting yourself to a 900-page existential crisis about patricide and grief.

Masochistic idiot.

“What.”

“Nothing,” Stiles says, shrugging one shoulder as he leans back in his chair, legs sprawled out in front of him. He crosses his arms, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his bicep. “Just—I'm going to talk, and you’re going to shut the fuck up and listen to me. Lo comprendes, amigo?”

Derek grunts.

Stiles snaps his fingers, sharp and deliberate. “Hey, rude. Just remember—dick-in-ass privileges? I grant them. I can take them away just as fast. Let that marinate, big guy.”

Derek finally looks up. Frowns.

"We cool?" Stiles asks. "Frown for yes, smile for no."

Derek’s frown deepens.

"Glad we understand each other," Stiles says cheerfully, then continues with, “After my mom died, my dad was kind of shit at being a parent.”

With a scowl, Derek looks down at his book again.

"He drank too much, cooked way too little, and mostly forgot he had a kid who wasn’t handling the whole dead mom thing all that well."

Derek flips a page without any sign of acknowledgment, but Stiles catches the way his fingers tighten around the edges, pressing into the paper just a little too hard.

"They had kids really young," Stiles explains. "He was only like five years older than you when she died, you know? My mom stayed home with me while he worked, and then suddenly—boom—he’s a single dad taking care of a hyperactive kid with panic attacks."

Derek’s eyes narrow, the pages warping under his fingers.

"Yeah." Stiles smiles faintly, scratching at his chin. "That was kind of a harsh awakening, I guess. Your wife dies, and then you wake up one night to your kid suffocating in a closet."

“It’s selfish.” The book slams down against the table. "You were a child."

"In a way, yeah," Stiles agrees, then says gently, "But Derek, the point is that he tried to change. And I chose to forgive him, because I know he didn’t mean to hurt me. He just got lost in his grief, and that’s awful. It might make him a shitty parent—temporarily—but it doesn’t make him a bad person."

“Right.” Derek’s lips pull into a wry twist, something bitter curling at the edges of his mouth. He flicks his gaze to Stiles, just for a second, then exhales sharply, shaking his head with a quiet, derisive scoff.

Stiles rolls his eyes. Reaching across the table, he threads their fingers together and brushes his thumb over the ridges of Derek’s knuckles.

"He still beats himself up, though. A lot," Stiles murmurs. "I think he wonders what mom would have said, you know? But I know she would’ve been proud—because that’s just how she was. Might’ve kicked him in the balls first, but she would’ve been the first to forgive, too."

“She sounds good,” Derek admits grudgingly, and Stiles wants to kiss his grumpy face for the way he says this like it’s something awful

“Hey,” Stiles says softly, giving his hand a pointed squeeze. "You don’t need to be angry at my dad, Derek.”

The fingers Stiles has been loosely holding start to curl in, the muscles in Derek’s forearm tightening visibly.

“And I think it’s time you stop being angry at yourself, too."

There’s a faint sound at the back of Derek’s throat, and his shoulders shifts into a slow, defensive hunch. His whole posture draws inward, like he’s trying to make less of himself, make himself disappear, without actually leaving the room.

“Shut up,” he grits out, low and rough, the words barely more than a subtle growl.

“I’d be happy to, dude,” Stiles replies, flashing a tight smile. “You want to talk instead? Go ahead. The scene is yours.”

Derek’s upper lip draws back just enough to show teeth. His eyes flicker up beneath furrowed brows, and his jaw is set tight enough that Stiles can see the muscle twitch along the side of his face.

“No?” Stiles prods, his voice dipping, softening at the edges but not losing its edge. “Then stop acting like a goddamn animal and sit your ass back down.”

Derek glares at him, chest rising and falling fast. His free hand is braced on the edge of the table, fingers curled under as if he's holding himself there by force. The light above them hums softly, casting pale circles on the tabletop, highlighting the uneven scarring along the stained wood.

With a heavy sigh, Stiles watches one of Derek’s knees pull back slightly as he tucks in close to the chair, and when Derek makes a move to stand, chair legs scraping faintly against the concrete floor, Stiles doesn’t let him go.

“You’re gonna make a run for it, big guy?” Stiles asks, one brow raised, fingers still loosely wrapped around Derek’s wrist.

“Maybe,” Derek mutters, noncommittal—but there’s the slightest tug at the corner of his mouth, reluctant and amused.

“Listen,” Stiles says. “I get it. You’re pissed off. You don’t want to talk about this. But you also don’t get to start shit with my dad and then sulk when I try to have a conversation about it.”

“He started it.”

Stiles actually laughs at that—sharp and disbelieving. “Derek, for fuck’s sake. You attacked him. With a shopping cart.”

“Fine.” With a deep exhale through his nose, Derek grudgingly sinks back down into the chair. “Sorry, I guess.”

“Thank you, Derek.” Stiles bites down on his lower lip to smother a grin, managing a small nod. “You can go back to your stupid book now, if you want.”

"Your face is stupid.”

Despite the taciturn tone, Derek’s shoulders loosen. The sharpness in his posture fades. His fingers, still resting in Stiles’ hand, twitch once—just a flicker of hesitation—and then settle, warm and still against his palm.

“You love my stupid face, asshole,” Stiles responds in a lighter tone, then tilts his head, eyes drifting down to the book once again half-clutched in Derek’s hand.

The cover is worn, the spine softened by age and use; damaged by what looks like faint water-warping, with the corners blackened and flaking. The title, once probably elegant in silver embossing, is dulled and half-erased, barely legible now.

“Tell me about it,” Stiles says, nodding toward it. “Is it as boring as it looks? Because, I gotta hand it to you, dude—this one looks pretty fucking boring.”

"It’s okay," Derek answers. "My grandfather liked Dostoevsky."

"I can't believe you know how to pronounce Dostoevsky."

Derek raises an eyebrow. He adjusts in his chair and flips the book open, the crumpled pages sighing softly as he thumbs through yellowed parchment.

"I’m going to read to you now."

“Okay,” Stiles replies softly. “You do that, buddy.”

He watches silently the way Derek’s fingers move, the slight tremble in his knuckles, the scrape of his thumbnail against brittle pages. The book rests heavy in his grip, its cracked spine bowing, as Derek offers this piece of himself wrapped in old paper and fire-damaged pages.

“People speak sometimes about the bestial cruelty of man, but that is terribly unjust and offensive to beasts,” Derek reads quietly. “No animal could ever be so cruel as a man, so artfully, so artistically cruel.”

“Bend over for me.”

Derek might struggle with the most basic of human communication, might keep his words under lock and key and hoard them like some surly, monosyllabic gargoyle—but with his cock buried balls-deep in Stiles’ ass, they always seem to come a bit easier.

“You look good like this,” Derek continues in a low, gruff voice. “Arch up a bit more.”

As Stiles has learned over time, Derek’s dick is way less hesitant about communication.

“Don’t tell me what to do, asshole,” Stiles replies automatically.

A faint whimper slips from his throat as Derek’s grip tightens around his neck, pressing him down to the desk. The cool wood scrapes his cheek when Derek shifts behind him, knees forcefully nudging his legs further apart.

“God, you're hot like this." Stiles arches his back at the feeling of Derek’s cock dragging hot and slick between his spread cheeks. "I knew the dub-con Wolfbang collection on AO3 would ruin me for life.”

“Mouthy today.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, innocently glancing up under his lashes. “Maybe someone needs to show me who's in charge.”

The hand around his neck loosens, fingers tracing down the curve of his back, following each ridge of his spine—over the dip at his lower back, over the subtle flare of his hips, until Derek’s palm spreads possessively against his tailbone.

“You already know who’s in charge,” Derek replies, a teasing edge to his tone.

A finger dips into the cleft of his ass, gliding through the wetness gathered there, skimming over his hole—just a fleeting touch before pressing in, shallow, then retreating to trace the rim.

Stiles pushes back instinctively, grunting out a, “Fucker.”

The rough scrape of stubble brushes against his nape as Derek leans forward, slipping his finger in again, deeper this time, stretching him with slow, languid motions.

“Yes,” he says, and Stiles can feel the stretch of his smirk widen. “But you like it.”

"Yeah,” Stiles exhales, hands curling tight around the edge of the desk. "Derek—"

“Relax,” he prompts gently. “Bear down a bit.”

Derek’s other hand settles on Stiles’ hip, thumb rubbing a firm circle just above the bone. Pushing deeper, he curls his fingers, rubbing over the spot that makes Stiles’ whole body jerk, a helpless sound spilling from his throat.

"Fuck—yes—there, right there—"

Despite Stiles protesting noise, Derek's fingers drag out, leaving him achingly empty before pressing right back in, three this time.

"Fuck, you look good like this."

“How?” Stiles groans, legs trembling as he pushes himself back onto Derek’s hand. “All hot and desperate for you?”

“Yeah.”

“My asshole's definitely desperate for that monster cock of yours.” Smirking, Stiles feels Derek’s cock twitch against his skin, smearing a damp streak of precome along the inside of his thigh. “Come on. Get to it, Alpha McGrowly.”

“No.”

“Growl Daddy?”

“No.”

“Knotzilla?”

“Stiles.”

“Wait, I've got it,” Stiles laughs breathily, the movement making him clamp down tight around Derek’s fingers. “The Knotfather.”

With a satisfied sound, Derek pulls his fingers free—only to replace them with the thick head of his cock, teasing it against Stiles’ loosened rim.

“Really,” Stiles says wryly. “You diss on Alpha McGrowly, but Knotfather works for you?”

“Stiles,” Derek rasps hoarsely. “Shut up, I want to—can I?”

“God, yes.” Releasing a tiny, aggravated moan, Stiles drops his head onto his folded arms. “You don’t have to fucking ask, Derek. I give you, like, full blanket consent. Lifetime subscription.”

“That’s not how consent works,” Stiles hears Derek mumble grudgingly.

“Well, it really should,” Stiles complains and widens his stance to thrust back against Derek’s cock—then lets out a frustrated hiss as it slips away, dragging wetly up the crease of his ass instead.

“Don't do that. Be careful,” Derek mutters, and winds a hand beneath Stiles’ knee, lifting his leg up onto the desk. “Come on—like this.”

“Admit it,” Stiles says, breath hitching as Derek’s other arm wraps across his chest, hauling him upright until his head tips back to rest against Derek’s shoulder. “You just wanna look at my asshole.”

"I want to make you feel good." Derek's lips brushes over Stiles’ temple. “Not hurt you.”

"Fuck me then," Stiles demands, raising an arm to thread his fingers through the thick strands of Derek’s hair, nails scraping against his scalp. "You always make me feel good."

"You want me to fuck you?" Derek asks, his voice a low murmur against Stiles’ ear.

"Yes," Stiles stresses. “Yeah, I want you to fuck me, you idiot.”

His body tenses in anticipation as Derek’s cock slides against his entrance again, still only teasing with shallow, infuriating nudges—lingering there for just a second, before pushing in with a slow, steady pressure. The stretch is immediate, a perfect, stinging ache as Derek fills him, forcing him open around the thick weight of his cock.

“Fuck.” Stiles’ mouth drops open in a breathless moan, fingers tightening reflexively in Derek’s hair. “Fuck, that’s—”

“Yeah?” Derek's bicep flexes as he holds his hips flush against Stiles’ ass. "Feel good?"

"So good," Stiles pants out, head dropping forward as he struggles to catch his breath. “Would feel even better if you fucking moved, Derek.”

With a faint laugh, Derek pulls out all the way to the tip—then snaps his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt. The desk jerks under the force, its legs scraping against the floor with a sharp drag as Stiles lets out a choked sound, fingers scrambling for purchase against Derek’s arm.

“Again—more.”

“You sure?”

"Move, Derek."

He shivers at the feel of Derek’s lips sliding wetly along the hinge of his jaw, breath damp and uneven against his skin.

“Harder?”

“Harder.”

Derek's rough voice tapers off into a low snarl, and then his teeth sink into the skin of his throat, sharp enough to make Stiles jolt, a half-strangled sound catching in his throat.

"Yes, no, more—touch me," Stiles chokes out, voice breaking between the slick slap of skin meeting skin, the rhythmic creak of the desk struggling beneath their weight. “Come on, fucking touch me.”

His lips part on a low moan as Derek's smooth palm slides down from his chest, flattening over the taut muscles of his stomach before curling around his cock—then fucking holds still.

"No," Stiles whines. "No, come on.”

Derek lets out a faint hum and strokes him once—slow, teasing. “Say please.”

“Asshole,” Stiles snaps, hips jerking as he tries to push himself up into the shallow grip of Derek’s hand. “Touch my dick, you fucking ass—please.”

“Thank you,” Derek replies, smug and amused, and Stiles can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

“Shut the fuck up and fuck me,” Stiles hisses, voice bleeding out into a dragged out moan as Derek finally tightens his hand and moves.

With a grunt, Derek snaps his hips harder, fucking into him faster, his pace shifting from steady to relentless in the space of a breath. Each stroke of his fist up the length of Stiles’ cock matches the thrust of his hips, perfectly timed, hard and focused. Stiles’ fingers dig into Derek’s forearm, clinging for balance, for something solid to hold onto as his body rocks forward with every thrust.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” Stiles gasps, head lolling back onto Derek’s shoulder. “Just like that—fuck.”

Derek releases a hoarse moan, and a moment later his forehead presses into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder, rhythm turning sloppy, erratic. His hold tightens, the arm braced around Stiles’ chest squeezing hard enough to bruise as he drives up faster.

“Stiles—fuck.”

Stiles hears Derek’s breath hitch just before his hips snap up one final time. He drives in deep, burying himself to the base, every muscle going tense, locked in place. The steady motion of his hand falters, grasp tightening for a heartbeat as his release hits, then slackening just as quickly. His fingers twitch, flex once, then fall slack, resting motionless on Stiles’ thigh.

“Seriously?” Stiles snaps. “Are you for real right now?”

Derek huffs out a spent, satisfied sound. His tight hold around Stiles’ chest eases, fingers sliding down his stomach in a slow, absent-minded caress.

“Give me a second and I’ll take care of you,” he mumbles sluggishly. “Promise.”

"How about we put a pin in those plans for a few years?"

A lead weight instantly settles in Stiles’ chest, pressing down on his ribs, making it impossibly hard to draw a full breath.

He knows that voice.

Knows it down to his bones.

One he’s heard used to calm domestic disputes before they turn violent, to make dangerous men freeze in place, hands raised in wary surrender.

Slowly, Stiles looks up.

The doorway looms in his periphery and there, bathed in the dim, amber glow of the hallway light, stands his father. Leaning against the frame, one hand resting, easy as you please, on the grip of his gun.

The angle of his arm is casual, but Stiles knows his dad. That’s not the stance of a man just casually standing around—that’s a deliberate display of control.

At first glance, his dad's face looks calm. Expression unreadable. No visible anger. No rage. He hardly even looks displeased at the sight of his barely-legal son having a grown-ass Alpha werewolf up his ass. His eyes though—Jesus. His eyes are razor-sharp with that quiet, composed intensity that once made Stiles confess to a porn-addiction that was only partially true.

He was almost sent to a youth rehab center, that’s how goddamn commanding that stare is.

With a high-pitched, panicked noise, Stiles practically folds himself in half, dropping his forearms onto the table to hide his still very formidable erection. Behind him, Derek hasn’t moved a muscle—Stiles hasn’t even felt him breathe.

“Can you give us, like, two minutes, tops?" Stiles asks, a bit desperate. "Some of us didn’t get to orgasm, and I'm not naming any names here, but—yeah, okay, it’s me.”

"Stiles.”

His name lands in perfect unison, spoken from two vastly different mouths, carrying two vastly different meanings.

His dad, exasperated.

Derek, unimpressed.

If Stiles wasn’t currently experiencing the most mortifying moment of his entire goddamn existence, he might have laugh-cried at the defiant stare Derek decides to aim at his dad. Instead, he’s too busy contemplating the logistics of assuming a new identity in another country.

His dad exhales, tired and displeased, the kind of breath that usually comes right before he puts Stiles under strict house arrest.

"Hale," he says resolutely. "Get your goddamn ass off my kid."

Stiles tilts his head just enough to look at Derek—whose eyes flick down to Stiles, eyebrow arched.

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters darkly under his breath.

“Yeah.” Derek shrugs, the movement infinitesimal and almost imperceptible.

He knows exactly what Derek is thinking, because Stiles is thinking it, too. Namely, the sheer, ungodly amount of come currently still inside of him, held there by nothing but luck, divine intervention, and Derek’s dick.

Stiles shifts.

Derek growls.

His dad narrows his eyes.

“Hale—behave.”

“Derek,” Stiles snaps. “You’re making it worse. Just fucking listen to him.”

Derek does not budge a fucking inch. Instead, his grip on Stiles’ hip goes tight—just for a fraction of a second—before he lifts his head to meet his dad's eyes dead on. Then he very, very slowly starts to pull out, while holding his dad’s gaze.

“Shit,” Stiles murmurs, fingers going tight around the edge of the desk. “Careful.”

A breathy exhale escapes as Derek's cock slips out, and Stiles bites the inside of his cheek to suppress the unbidden moan he can feel crawling up his throat.

“Why,” he hears Derek ask in a smug, low tone. “Feels good, doesn’t it.”

His dad makes an unimpressed scoff, shifting his weight as he straightens from where he’d been leaning against the doorframe.

“Clothes—both of you,” he says, and Stiles sees his hand twitch closer to the gun resting in its holster. “Now."

“Absolutely,” Stiles agrees quickly. “Fantastic idea.”

See, Stiles can recognize a perfectly reasonable demand when he hears one. No argument here. He is fully on board with the concept of clothes. He’d love nothing more than to put several layers of fabric between his unfortunately undeterred boner and his dad’s mounting disapproval. Derek, however—cocksure, full-moon-drunk Alpha that he is—sadly seems less convinced.

“No.”

“What the fuck do you mean, no,” Stiles whispers heatedly. “This is not the time for stupid alpha-male full moon antics, Derek.”

Stiles feels it before he sees it—a subtle shift in the air behind him, the kind that sends a prickle up his neck before his brain can name it. Derek’s body goes still, muscles coiled tight just beneath the skin. Glancing back over his shoulder again, Stiles catches the flicker of Derek’s eyes—fast, instinctive—cutting from his dad in the doorway to the window.

Calculating.

Assessing.

And oh boy, does Stiles know that look—recognizes it from the exact split-second before Derek usually bolts.

Jesus Christ.

Stiles exhales sharply. "Oh, for the love of—really?"

“Yeah.”

Turning around in Derek's arms, Stiles sighs heavily. "Think about your choices here, buddy,” he murmurs. “Option A, while it might involve a deeply unpleasant conversation with my dad, also comes with the benefit of clothes. Option B involves you running across town, stark naked, in the middle of the goddamn night."

“Don’t even think about it, Hale,” his dad says from the doorway.

Derek doesn’t so much as blink. His stare remains steady, fixed only on Stiles. There’s a moment of silence, a breath of space where Stiles actually thinks logic might win out. Then one strong, steady hand hooks around the back of his neck, dragging him forward. The kiss is brief, but rough—a hard press of lips—there and gone in a second.

"Not about to break a winning concept," Derek murmurs, smiling against Stiles' slack mouth before pulling back with one final little nip to his bottom lip.

"I really can’t decide if you’re a comedy or a tragedy," Stiles mutters. "Like, Shakespeare would’ve had a fucking field day with you, man."

Derek makes a small, noncommittal sound. “Gotta commit to the bit.”

“Okay, no—stop that,” Stiles says sternly, trying for exasperation, but a small laugh slips out before he can stop it. “Fine. Go. Be accidentally charming somewhere else.”

“Okay,” Derek replies, and pulls him in for another quick kiss.

Smashing his palm over Derek’s face, Stiles shoves him away with a grin. “Didn’t you have a window to dramatically throw yourself out of?”

There’s a soft snort, barely more than a breath of sound, and then Derek leans in—just enough for Stiles to feel the ghost of his breath against his scalp. He presses his face into Stiles’ hair, exhales slowly, then inhales in like he’s trying to memorize the scent.

“Hale,” Stiles hears his dad sigh unpassionately. “I am a very patient man, but even my patience has limits.”

After a few moments, Derek straightens, and the shift in him is immediate. He squares his shoulders, spine stretching long and fluid, every movement measured. The muscles in his arms shift beneath his skin, slow and precise, and his stance widens instinctively, as if he’s bracing for a fight.

“Derek,” Stiles mumbles warningly. “Don’t make it worse.”

Lifting his chin, Derek locks his gaze on Stiles' dad—unflinching and steady.

And then he smiles.

Derek’s jaw tightens as it curves upward, a slow pull of lips that’s anything but warm. It spreads wide across his face, broad and sharp-edged. It’s bare-teethed and predatory, something closer to a snarl than any real attempt at civility.

A wolf baring its fangs.

Fuck.

He shouldn’t find it hot.

God, he really shouldn’t.

But the way Derek’s muscles flex, the way his eyes burn with the slightest hint of red, the way his entire body reads like barely contained power—yeah. It does things to Stiles.

Inconvenient things.

He crosses his arms and pointedly looks away, trying not to squirm.

Obviously, something must have malfunctioned during his formative years—somewhere along the way, exposure to violently hot aggressive werewolves must have rewired his brain into associating arrogance with attractiveness.

Derek slants him a level look, and his smile morphs into a smirk.

“Clothes,” his dad repeats loudly. “Now.”

“Jesus,” Stiles groans, dragging the heels of his hands over his face. “Fuck, I forgot you were even here. Shit, this is so fucked.”

“Turn around,” Stiles hears Derek say to his dad, and winces at the sharp and commanding edge to his tone. “You’re making Stiles uncomfortable.”

“You’re in no position to bark orders around here, Hale,” his dad responds flatly.

Stiles almost snorts out loud despite the tension coiling just below the surface, but looking at Derek—brows knitting together, nostrils flaring, expression hardening—he clamps his mouth shut tight.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says when Derek’s fingers wrap firmly around his wrist and tugs him backward, positioning him neatly behind the broad expanse of his body.

Stiles shivers as Derek’s hand slides over the curve of his hip, warm fingers grazing his skin. Without a word, Derek reaches past him, body brushing close as he stretches for the discarded Henley draped over the edge of the desk.

“Here,” he says, pressing the shirt against Stiles’ chest, palm lingering with the fabric caught between them.

Glancing up, Stiles’ mouth is already parted with the beginnings of a protest, but the words die before they form.

Because Derek’s looking at him—really looking at him—tension mounting through every line of his body, shoulders pulled taut like he’s holding himself together with sheer force of will. There’s a faint tremble at the edge of his chin where his jaw is locked tight, barely visible, but there.

Beneath all of Derek’s control, all that practiced stillness, is something pleading. A quiet, unwavering request in the way his eyes hold Stiles’, in the shirt still pressed between them, crumpled in Derek’s hand and caught against Stiles’ chest like a shield.

“Put it on.”

"There’s something seriously wrong with you," Stiles mutters. "Like, in your actual brain. Medically concerning levels of wrong."

“Stiles.”

“This is ridiculous,” Stiles stresses. “You understand that, right?”

Derek swallows, and when he speaks again, the words come out so quiet, so hushed, they barely make a sound.

"Please."

It catches right behind his ribs and pulls—tight—and Stiles knows, with absolute certainty, that if Derek ever asked him for anything in that voice ever again, he'd never be able to deny him.

“Fine,” Stiles agrees, and reaches out to curl his fingers around the quivering muscles of Derek’s arm. "Okay, Derek. I’ll put it on, alright?"

“Thank you,” Derek mutters, and something in his face relaxes. Under Stiles’ hand, the tension in his body eases, just a fraction, enough for the tight line of his jaw to soften.

“Don’t think we're not having a conversation about this later, big guy,” Stiles adds firmly. “There will be words, lots of them, from both sides.”

“Okay,” Derek says, and there’s a lilt to his voice that makes Stiles want to roll his eyes on instinct—pleased and smug, like someone who knows he’s just won without ever needing to play fair.

Like a cat that just got all of the fucking cream.

Except Derek’s no cat.

He’s a wolf, through and through—big and burly and entirely too self-satisfied, like he’s just taken down the biggest, juiciest prey in the forest and hasn’t even bothered to wipe the blood from his teeth yet.

And right now, he’s looking at Stiles like he’s the prize.

Which, objectively, should be flattering.

Subjectively?

It’s fucking infuriating.

And still unfairly hot.

“Shame on you,” Stiles says, eyes narrowing as he lifts the shirt to wrangle it over his head. “You know what you just did.”

The fabric is soft against his skin—familiar in a way that sends a rush of heat skimming down his spine. It smells faintly of sweat and Derek, something piney and hot underneath the cotton, like trees and spices. The Henley hangs loose on him, too big in the shoulders, the sleeves swallowing his wrists. Once on, the neckline slips wide, falling off one shoulder, exposing the sharp ridge of his collarbone to the cool air.

He reaches up to tug it back into place, but Derek is already there. His fingers brush over the stretched fabric to catch the edge and gently pulls it back up, thumb grazing the bare skin at the top of Stiles’ shoulder as he smooths it into place.

“Guess this seals the deal, huh,” Stiles mumbles, tugging uselessly at the hem of Derek’s shirt, which barely covers his thighs, let alone anything else. He shoots Derek a look—still entirely naked, unbothered, and looking infuriatingly pleased about it. “You’re really gonna run home with your tail tucked under your bare ass?”

“You like my bare ass.”

With a put-upon huff, Stiles says begrudgingly, “It is, admittedly, a great ass.”

Derek presses the last piece of clothing into Stiles’ hands—a pair of black boxer briefs, threadbare and faded from years of washing.

“Now these,” he says.

Stiles looks down at them, then back up at Derek with a slow blink and one brow arching in incredulous amusement. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to wear your underwear.”

“Yes.”

Stiles squints at him. “Is this a dominance thing?”

“Yes.”

"Okay then."

Stiles bends to step into them—one foot, then the other—before tugging the briefs up over his hips. The waistband snaps softly into place, sitting loose but comfortable, and the fabric clings to his skin, soft and still warm from Derek’s hand.

He glances up. “Happy?”

“Very,” Derek answers without hesitation.

Stiles folds his arms over his chest. “You’re a possessive asshole.”

“Yes,” Derek says again, happily, like it’s a compliment.

He tilts his head slightly, slow and wolfish, eyes darkening as they trace the shape of Stiles’ body—starting at his throat, dragging down the line of his chest, lingering at the way the underwear sits just slightly crooked below his hip bones.

There’s something reverent in the way he looks at him. Something hungry, but not just for skin.

And Stiles, despite himself, feels his face flush all the way to his ears.

Crowding in close, Derek's fingers curl around the side of Stiles’ neck, the roughness of his palm brushing against skin that suddenly feels far too sensitive. His thumb settles over the sharp curve of Stiles’ Adam’s apple, resting there lightly. With a dip of his neck, Derek’s nose drags up the line behind Stiles’ ear in one unhurried motion, lips mouthing wetly against skin as he inhales deep.

“I like you in my clothes,” he murmurs roughly.

Stiles shivers, a flush rising beneath the touch, goosebumps chasing up his arms like static. “Yeah?”

A deep, satisfied rumble vibrates in Derek’s chest, possessive and primal. “Smell even better.”

His thumb presses a little firmer, not enough to hurt, but claiming—tracking the slow bob of Stiles’ throat as he swallows thickly, caught somewhere between a gasp and a groan.

"That’s enough," his dad says sharply. "Clothes or not, I want you out of here."

"I’ll call you later," Derek says quietly.

Waiting, unmoving, he stands completely still until Stiles gives a short, wordless nod. Then, sans a single word, and without so much as a glance in his dad’s direction, Derek turns. The room is silent save for the soft sound of his bare feet meeting the floor—each step unhurried as he slowly makes his way toward the window.

With a weary sigh, Stiles lets himself drop onto the edge of the desk, skin pebbling at the feel of cool wood beneath his naked thighs. His gaze drifts—drawn, helplessly, greedily—following the long lines of Derek’s back, the flex and powerful shift of muscle. Allowing his eyes to settle on the firm curve of Derek’s ass, on the thick, powerful set of his thighs, his belly flares hot with a burst of arousal.

At the window, Derek pauses.

Moonlight spills across him as he turns slightly—silver catching on the stubbled edge of his jaw, tracing the sharp architecture of his cheekbones, the thick slope of his neck. Just barely, the corner of his mouth lifts, the subtlest curve of a smirk, like he knows exactly what Stiles is looking at.

Stiles feels his own lips twitch up in response—helpless against it.

Turning back, Derek moves, quick and fluid. He unlocks the window with a quiet click and pushes it open, the humid night air spilling in. Climbing onto the sill, Derek crouches for half a heartbeat, and then jumps.

“Right.”

His dad drags his computer chair closer to the desk, the wheels creaking faintly as he drops into it with a sigh. He rubs a hand over his face, palm dragging slow down his jaw.

“Your boyfriend just jumped out the goddamn window, Stiles.”

“Yeah. Well. We strive for tradition in this relationship.” He picks absently at a loose thread on the hem of the shirt, twisting it around his finger. “He has a thing for windows.”

“But him?” his dad asks. “Out of all the people in the world, you think Derek Hale is good boyfriend material?”

Stiles doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

That makes his dad pause.

Something shifts in his face, the lines around his eyes tightening with thought. The growing exasperation melts into something considering, his expression easily recognizable to Stiles as the one he wears when trying to understand something that’s just outside his reach.

“You’ll have to talk me through that one, kid,” he says after a moment. “Because from where I’m standing, Derek Hale’s a whole bunch of bad news.”

Stiles doesn’t respond right away. His fingers twitch at his side, then lift—almost unconsciously—to the pendant resting against his collarbone. The worn metal is smooth and faintly warm from his skin. His thumb brushes across its surface, slow and thoughtful.

He glances toward the window, where the curtains are still swaying faintly from Derek’s exit. Beyond the glass, the moon hangs low and full, casting soft silver light across the floor in long, pale ribbons.

“He trusted me with his heart,” Stiles settles on eventually. “So I decided to trust him with mine.”

His dad’s eyes study him, gaze steady as they rake over his face. Then, finally, he leans back in his chair and exhales slowly through his nose. “That’s something.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yeah. It is.”

“Talk to me, kid.”

“I'd really rather not.”

“It’s not personal, Sonny,” his dad says evenly. “It’s strictly business.”

"Stop it," Stiles sighs. "You're way too pretty to be a mob boss."

His dad doesn’t even blink. With his hands steepled on the kitchen table, he looks like a man ready to hand down some serious judgment. Combined with the look on his face—somewhere between barely contained disapproval and a thirst for blood—Stiles kind of wants to put him in a three-piece suit, stick a cigar between his teeth, and call it a day.

“Words, Stiles,” his dad says flatly. “Now.”

"In my defence," Stiles replies as he drags out a chair and drops into it with theatrical resignation. "This isn’t how I wanted you to find out."

It really wasn’t.

He would’ve preferred never, honestly. Or something more underhanded. Like a text. Or a five-year engagement followed by a tasteful destination elopement. But instead, the universe had treated his dad to a full moonlit glimpse of Derek Hale’s bare ass vaulting gracefully across the lawn like some kind of supernatural streaker.

Hard to come back from that.

“Okay,” his dad says dryly. “And how did you want me to find out? Walk in on you two holding hands at the farmer’s market?”

“Maybe,” Stiles says, resting his chin on his hand. “That would’ve been so much less traumatic for all of us.”

“Christ, Stiles. This is a mess.” His dad leans back in his chair, sighing. “Colossal.”

“Yup,” Stiles says brightly. “That’s about the size of it.”

“Stiles.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you,” his dad says, giving him a deeply aggrieved look. “About your boyfriend.”

“So am I,” Stiles shoots back. “What did you think I was talking about? His penis? Which, for the record, is also colossal—since we’re on the subject.”

His dad grimaces. “I didn’t want to know that.”

“Well,” Stiles shrugs, “you asked.”

“I really didn’t.”

“You did,” Stiles insists. “In your tone.”

His dad gives him a look—a familiar, world-weary I’m too old for this shit look that Stiles has been on the receiving end of since age ten.

“You’re lucky I love you,” his dad mutters, resigned.

“I sure am,” Stiles says sweetly. “And I’m sure Derek appreciates it too.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Copy that, Chief.”

“So,” his dad says pointedly. “Derek Hale.”

“Yep,” Stiles replies slowly. “That one.”

His dad’s eyes narrow. “He treats you well?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re happy?”

“Absolutely.”

His dad looks very skeptical, like there’s not a possibility, timeline or universe in which Derek Hale can make his son happy.

Which—honestly? Fair.

Derek’s caring face looks exactly the same as his murder-face. His orgasm-face kind of looks a bit like that, too.

Stiles understands why it can be confusing at first.

He can practically see his dad assembling a mental PowerPoint presentation titled Poor Romantic Decisions Made By My Only Child (Volume I of IX).

“And,” his dad starts, then sighs—one of those long-suffering, soul-deep sighs Stiles is pretty sure he learned from parenting him. He runs a hand through his hair and seems to abandon whatever diplomatic phrasing he’d been aiming for. “And for how long have you two been… doing this thing?”

“Since my eighteenth birthday two months ago,” Stiles replies smoothly. “Which is the answer that allows us both to avoid several deeply uncomfortable follow-up questions.”

He flashes his most obnoxiously endearing smile.

His dad winces. “Jesus, Stiles. Put that thing away before you scare the neighbors.”

Harsh. No wonder he has self-esteem issues.

“Thanks, dad,” he says wryly. “Isn’t it, like, your job to build me up? Instill me with a healthy sense of self-worth? Maybe a little emotional fortitude? A dash of personal validation?"

“You managed to bag Derek Hale, kid,” his dad says. “And because of that, I now unfortunately know what he looks like naked."

Stiles smirks. “You’re welcome.”

His dad shakes his head. “Trust me—you don’t need any more personal validation. You’re clearly doing just fine.”

They’ve been parked at the curb outside Stiles’ house for a solid twenty minutes, the engine ticking softly as it cools, headlights off, the empty street stretching out in front of them. The only movement is the occasional flutter of leaves in the breeze and the anxious bounce of Stiles’ knee.

Derek hasn’t said a word since they pulled up. His hands are clenched on the steering wheel, knuckles pale, and jaw set tight.

“It’s going to be fine,” he says finally, voice clipped.

“Right,” Stiles echoes. “Totally fine.”

Derek glances sideways, skeptical. “Your dad is okay with this.”

“Jesus, no,” Stiles barks out a laugh. “He hates your fucking guts.”

Derek flinches. Barely. Just the smallest twitch in his fingers on the wheel.

“Right,” he mutters, nostrils flaring.

“Relax. He doesn’t hate-hate you,” Stiles says soothingly. “He just hates you in a how dare you touch my son's penis kind of way.”

“That’s... somehow a lot worse.” Derek mutters. “I didn’t want to know that.”

“I’m just trying to manage your expectations,” Stiles says defensively. “This is all your fault anyway. If you hadn’t prematurely ejaculated in my ass, we probably wouldn’t even be in this situation!”

“I didn’t prematurely ejaculate,” Derek grumbles.

“Did too.”

“Did—” Derek starts to grit out, then cuts himself off with a sharp exhalation. “Does your dad even know we’re coming?”

“Kind of.”

“Stiles.”

“Fine. Not exactly,” Stiles amends. “It’s more of a surprise visit.”

“You’re trying to get me killed.”

“Nah,” Stiles replies. “He’s got a gun, sure, but only regular bullets. It'll probably hurt like hell, but you’ll survive.”

"I'm not going inside," Derek states, staring straight ahead, hands flexing around the wheel.

"Yeah, you are."

"No.”

"Uh-huh." Stiles nods. "Real compelling argument, big guy. Unfortunately, you're about to lose it because, fun fact—" He reaches over, unbuckles Derek’s seatbelt, and pops open the passenger door in one fluid motion. "—you're going inside.”

“I have a lot of money.” Derek stays put, eyes flicking hesitantly toward the house. “You could use a new car.”

“We're down to bribes now?” Stiles sighs, pats his knee. "Come on, dude. Rip the Band-Aid. The worst thing that happens is my dad hates you forever and arrests you on trumped-up charges."

Derek grunts. "That's the worst thing?"

"Well," Stiles says, dragging out the word. "I mean, there's also the possibility of awkward dinner conversation about our sex life, but that would require you actually making it to dinner."

“Fuck,” Derek groans out, tipping his head back against the headrest.

"Chop chop, buddy,” Stiles prompts, nudging him toward the open door. “Into the lion’s den."

An additional fifteen minutes later, they’re still outside, standing on the lawn looking like two idiots, possibly with criminal intent.

“Give me a minute.”

Derek has his arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance like he’s contemplating the best trajectory for launching himself into the stratosphere.

"This is getting embarrassing for both of us," Stiles whines, shifting restlessly on his feet. "My dad’s definitely watching from the window, and I guarantee you he’s already debating whether to call the station and have us forcibly removed for loitering."

"I can still leave," Derek mutters.

"Oh, yeah, totally,” Stiles agrees. “On the other hand, you can also man the fuck up, walk inside, and prove to my dad that you’re not the worst decision I’ve ever made."

“Does no one remember that time you and Jackson decided to do a naked ritual under the full moon while surrounded by evil witches,” Derek complains, looking petulant.

"Derek, come on," Stiles says and tightens his grip around Derek’s wrist. "It'll be alright."

"You can't know that.”

Derek doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t move forward either. The look he slants at Stiles is wary—a bit scared, really, but trying hard to pretend otherwise—with something else beneath it, something braced and brittle and very, very small.

Stiles feels a sudden rush of something fond and aching in equal measure.

“I can,” he replies evenly. “I know my dad, Derek.”

"I acted like a dick to him.”

"Yeah, buddy," Stiles agrees, because it’s true. "You acted like a dick."

Derek’s hands disappear into his pockets, shoulders hunching just slightly.

“This is a bad idea, Stiles.”

“You’re good—you know that, right?”

Stiles lets go of his wrist, eyes trailing over the taut line of Derek’s back before stepping in close, pressing a steady palm between his shoulder blades. The warmth of him seeps into Stiles’ hand, the tension beneath skin and muscle taut like a wire strung too tight.

“You’re a good person,” Stiles continues firmly. His thumb rubs small circles into Derek’s back, just above the curve of his spine. “He’ll see that too. If you let him.”

Derek’s gaze flickers over Stiles’ face, eyes dark and searching—then his head tilts down, the barest hint of a nod.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles presses his palm a little firmer against Derek’s back. “Okay. Let's go.”

“Hale.”

His dad squints against the sharp midday light spilling across the porch, hand raised to shield his eyes.

“Nice to see you with clothes on.”

Derek stiffens, his back going ramrod straight—but to his credit, he tries.

He offers a smile.

It looks terrifying.

Predatory. Like he’s either about to bite someone or file taxes with extreme prejudice.

Stiles elbows him hard in the ribs.

“What Derek means,” he says brightly, “is that he’s deeply, profoundly sorry for acting like a territorial, possessive dick.”

Derek makes a low, aggravated sound

“There was a full moon,” Stiles continues, undeterred. “But honestly, that’s just his baseline personality. Trust me, I’ve done the research.”

“Stiles,” Derek breathes, exasperated.

“Too late,” Stiles mutters out of the corner of his mouth. “We’re committed now.”

Frowning down at him, Derek squeezes his hand once before letting go. With his shoulders squared, he steps forward until he’s standing in front of Stiles’ dad. He looks less like a man meeting his boyfriend’s father and more like a soldier bracing for a fight, expression carefully neutral, as if he's expecting a hydra to sprout from the porch at any second.

Stiles snickers.

Derek ignores him.

"Please, call me Derek, sir," he mumbles, frown deepening as he presses something into his dad’s hand—fingers hesitating for a fraction of a second before letting go.

His dad’s gaze drops, brows knitting together as he slowly uncurls his fingers. The questioning expression on his face barely shifts at first—just a flicker of confusion, a tightening at the corners of his eyes—before a hint of recognition sharpens his features as he turns the small object in his palm.

A bottle opener.

Rusted at the edges and blackened in places, but worn smooth from years of handling, and polished until it gleams under the bright rays of summer sun.

Stiles watches, tense, as his dad runs a thumb over the dented curve of metal, his grip tightening ever so slightly before slowly easing. Something passes over his face— a small change, a softening at the mouth, a smoothing of tension in his forehead.

His dad looks up, levels his sharp eyes Derek’s way, and then nods once.

“You’re handling the grill.”

With a smile, his dad claps a firm hand down on Derek’s shoulder—then turns and walks inside without another word, leaving the door open behind him.

"You didn’t have to do that," Stiles says carefully.

Shrugging, Derek scratches his beard thoughtfully before saying, “Yes.”

“Okay?” Stiles blinks, then shakes his head. “Alright, then. Time to man the grill, oh mighty alpha of mine."

"Don't."

"Lord of the Neanderthals?"

Derek looks pained. “No.”

"Fine," Stiles says, grinning as he gives Derek a gentle shove. "Come on, let’s go before my dad mistakes your sexy brooding face for manly defiance and makes you chop wood."

Finally stepping inside, Derek hesitates in the doorway. He leans in close, breath fanning over Stiles’ ear as he mutters, "The bottle opener was Peter's. I found it on his corpse before I buried him."

“That’s terrible,” Stiles croaks, choking on a laugh. “You’re a terrible person, Derek Hale.”

A slow smirk blooms across Derek’s face as he puts a hand on Stiles’ lower back to steer him further inside.

“If you control the fire, you control the pack,” Derek states smugly. “I am the grill master now.”

The sweater is soft and worn, the kind of knit that’s been washed a hundred times until the fibers loosen. It smells faintly like old detergent, with a trace of barely-there cedar, and the subtlest hint of sweat.

Maroon wool stretches over his arms as he tugs it on, the sleeves just a little too short, leaving his wrists exposed when he lets his hands drop. His fingers find the raised stitches on the front—Laura, stitched in neat pink thread, slightly uneven in places, like someone did it by hand. The name stands out against the dark fabric, and Stiles traces the letters absently as he adjusts the fit, rolling his shoulders, feeling the way the knit clings.

“Derek?”

Stiles’ winces as his voice drifts through the loft, echoing faintly off steel beams and industrial walls.

A pause.

Then, from somewhere below:
“Downstairs.”

The answer is short, clipped—slightly breathless.

Stiles rubs a thumb over the stitching one last time before shoving his hands into his pockets, shivering as his bare feet hit concrete outside Derek’s bedroom.

Peering over the edge of the railing, he spots Derek in the open space below, sweat slicking across his shoulders as he lowers himself slowly from a pull-up bar bolted into the far wall.

Stiles leans against the railing, grinning to himself. “You know, most people relax on their day off.”

“This is relaxing,” Derek calls up, voice gruff with exertion as he lets go of the bar and drops down to the floor.

Shaking his head affectionately, Stiles pushes himself off and sets down the winding staircase, soon finding Derek in the sun-drenched space before the towering windows.

“You’re getting a dictionary for your birthday,” Stiles says accusingly, casting an appreciative glance at the long stretch of Derek’s toned back. “This is not what relaxation looks like.”

Derek grunts, muscles shifting beneath skin gone golden in the early morning glow as he adjusts his stance.

“Hey, so,” Stiles starts, hedging. “I actually wanted to ask you something.”

“Okay,” Derek replies shortly, palms pressed flat and biceps taut as he lowers himself in a slow, controlled movement. “Ask.”

“I found this sweater stuffed inside my bag,” Stiles says, fidgeting absently with the frayed cuffs. “It has the name Laura stitched on the front.”

The thick column of Derek’s neck tenses, jaw going tight as he exhales. Stiles watches as sweat beads at his temples, tracing lazy paths down his spine.

“We need to do laundry tomorrow,” Derek says.

His shoulders bunch, broad and powerful, as he pushes himself up. The ripple of his triceps catches the light, highlighting the strength in the lines of his body.

“What?”

"You’re out of clean underwear."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles answers, twisting a loose thread of yarn near the hem around his finger. "Fair enough.”

He doesn’t bring it up again until long after the sun has slipped below the horizon.

There’s a light breeze seeping in from a cracked window, carrying the scent of summer—warm earth, cut grass, the lingering heat of the day clinging to the pavement.

Derek is stretched out on the bed, naked, the glow of the waning crescent moon tracing the sharp planes of his body in silver and shadow. The sheets are a mess beneath him, twisted and bunched around his waist, and Stiles pushes them away as he shifts up onto his elbow.

"You're staring," Derek mumbles, eyes still closed, voice tired and lazy.

"Yeah," Stiles admits easily, biting his lip to suppress a grin. “I'm horny again.”

He lets his fingers drift, tracing the shallow dips and valleys of Derek’s stomach, following the curve of his hip before dragging up to the steady beat of his pulse at his throat.

“Are you now,” Derek says dryly, eyes sliding open with the arch of an eyebrow.

Tilting his head, Stiles lets his lips ghost along the edge of Derek’s stubbled jaw, whispering, “I really, really am.”

“I think we might be able to do something about that,” Derek whispers back.

Breath catching when Derek tugs him down, Stiles lets out a startled laugh as he's rolled over and pressed down into the mattress with a slow, filthy grind of Derek’s hips. At the feel of Derek’s body on top of him, Stiles lets his eyes flutter closed as he drags his nails lightly up and down Derek’s spine, leaving red streaks over bare skin still damp with lingering heat.

“I like you,” he murmurs softly, barely more than a whisper. "I like-like you."

The sheets rustle as Derek moves, lifting his head just enough to look down at him. Heart thudding, Stiles watches as Derek’s eyes search his face.

“You don’t have to say it back, you know,” Stiles says, smiling as he reaches up to brush a strand of dark hair from Derek’s face. “I just wanted you to know.”

Soundlessly, Derek leans down. His lips press gently to Stiles’ cheek, lingering for a moment, then followed by another kiss, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.

“Does this mean you like-like me too?” Stiles asks, teasingly. “A little bit, at least?”

Lips turning up at the corners, Derek cups the back of Stiles’ neck with a gentleness that makes his chest ache.

“Maybe just a little,” he mumbles, lowering his body to press their foreheads together.

Stiles winds his fingers through Derek’s hair, thumb tracing a soft line just behind his ear. "Thank you for trusting me.”

With a soft scoff, Derek slides a hand up his stomach, fingers splayed wide as they push Laura's sweater higher, fabric gathering in soft folds just below his ribs.

“Shut up,” he says fondly and snuggles into Stiles’ armpit, nuzzling the coarse hair under his arm until it tickles.

“Okay,” Stiles replies breathily. “Shutting up now.”

Stiles' room is no longer just a room but a pirate map of treasures—of things, old and worn, broken and carried forward, turned into landmarks of memory.

There’s a worn military-grade flashlight wedged between dog-eared paperbacks and half-finished notebooks on his shelf, and a half-melted Zippo lighter tucked into the dish where he keeps his keys. A watch with a cracked leather strap rests on his nightstand, time forever stopped, and a maroon sweater with the name Laura stitched on the front now lives in his drawer.

Derek never talks about them.

Not in words, at least.

Stiles imagines he hears him anyway—in the lingering fingers that trace the heart-shaped pendant at the hollow of his throat, in the somber cadence of Dostoevsky bleeding from the yellowed, waterlogged pages of The Brothers Karamazov.

“Harder.”

Stiles gasps, fingers clawing for purchase as Derek yanks him down on his cock, the force of it sending a sharp jolt up his spine. His breath stutters out in tiny, breathy uh-uh-uhs as Derek’s grip tightens, driving into him with enough force to make the shelf in front of them rattle ominously against the wall.

Bracing himself, Stiles reaches forward blindly, fingers scrabbling for purchase only to latch onto something soft and hard and weirdly textured. His mind hardly registers the motion as gravity takes hold, the object tumbling free and striking him squarely in the face before bouncing onto the bed with a dull thud.

"Ouch—ow," Stiles yelps, flinching.

Reaching down, his palm flattens over textured fabric, fingers curling around—a vintage Cabbage Patch Kid doll, its round, cherubic face peering up at him with large, glassy eyes.

"The fuck?" Stiles blurts.

Derek stills inside of him, arms quivering as he holds Stiles weight. "My grandmother’s,” he grunts. “She collected them.”

Clutching the doll, Stiles' fingers tighten almost painfully around its tiny flower-printed dress. The dark yarn hair is tangled, dulled and soft—one eye slightly faded, giving its face a lopsided and wonky appearance.

Gently, Stiles presses his thumb against the stitched smile. Derek doesn’t say anything, but Stiles can feel the weight of his gaze, steady, watchful. Like he’s waiting—for Stiles to set it down, maybe, or to react in some way.

"Okay." Breathing out slowly, Stiles forces his grip to loosen. "Your grandmother collected them?”

Derek face tightens, and then he gives a tiny, almost imperceptible, nod. "Yes."

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Stiles smooths his fingers over the doll’s tiny, outstretched arm. The fabric there is worn nearly threadbare, like it had been clutched tight, night after night, for years.

“What was her name?”

Twisting his body, Stiles sets the doll down on the nightstand, adjusting its crooked little limbs until it sits properly.

"My grandmother’s name?" Derek asks cautiously.

“Yeah.”

In a voice so quiet it barely disrupts the space between them, Derek mumbles, "It was Rose."

“That’s pretty,” Stiles replies. "Maybe you could tell me about her sometime?"

Derek inhales—a quiet, barely-there sound, more breath than voice—and then his hands are at Stiles’ waist. There's no warning, just a shift in weight and intent, and then the world flips. The bed gives a protesting creak beneath them, and Stiles lands with a soft grunt, breath punched from his lungs not by impact, but by surprise.

"Jesus, Derek."

His back sinks into the mattress, warmth spreading where Derek’s body follows a half-second later. Despite him holding himself up, Stiles can feel the faint quiver of a tremor running through Derek’s body, can feel the subtle tremble of his thighs where they press into his own.

“It’s okay,” Stiles murmurs softly, heart clenching painfully at the way Derek’s grip tightens around his waist, fingers pressing in just a little too hard before easing up, like he’s not quite sure if he’s holding on or if he's holding back. “You don’t have to, Derek.”

After long moments suspended in silence, Derek releases a breath—a slow, controlled thing that shudders out of him. His body softens, all tight muscle and defensive rigidity melting into slack, lax warmth. With a sigh, he stretches, limbs turning heavy and boneless as the full weight of him settles over Stiles.

“Okay,” Derek says. “What do you want to know?”