siriusstuff

Keeping his window closed meant his bedroom got stuffy but also kept out the local werewolf, at the moment clinging to the exterior sill.

“You’re a pain in my,” Stiles paused, selecting the appropriate anatomy. “Neck.”

Derek, bearer of too much lycanthrope pride to ask for help, just glared at him.

Stiles wondered why he still bothered trying to defend his privacy. “How can I say no to that face,” he quipped, and raised the window.

Instantly Derek propelled himself through it, all two hundred plus pounds of him landing atop Stiles.

“Well, isn’t this a little awkward,” Derek heard.

After watching Derek climb a tree to rescue Miss Whitley’s cat Stiles got a glimpse of what lay behind the werewolf’s exterior of surliness and reserve.

It was a façade, a barrier, sure, but one made of toothpicks and spider webs. A little strategic flirtation, turning his head so his neck tendons popped into view or licking a fingertip to turn a page but taking an extra long lick, Stiles got through it.

What he found within panted and whined, vulnerable and passionate, thrusting against him desperately while Stiles held on with all his might, determined to never let go.

As the pack trained Stiles took one last look at Derek then refocused on his laptop and the paper he was supposed to be writing.

But his mind drifted, and no wonder, because Derek was peeling off his tank top when Stiles looked away. The last thing he needed were more visuals of muscles glistening with sweat, especially when the possibility of ever touching those muscles remained elusive as the horizon.

Something moist and warm hit Stiles in the face and he sputtered, “It’s mine now!” jumping to his feet and running off with Derek’s shirt, Derek right behind him.

Counting sheep had failed. Every time Stiles lost count he started over and so now was more awake than ever.

Beside him Derek slumbered unperturbed. Apparently werewolves were also immune to insomnia.

Derek liked the windows open on summer nights, to let in fresh air. Stiles lay listening to the clamor of insects coming in along with that air.

“Stiles,” Derek’s sleepy voice intruded. Then with some difficulty he started pushing down his boxer briefs, stopping once his butt was exposed.

Stiles didn’t know exactly what Derek was up to but felt sure he’d be very happy to find out.

(1)

The sign read “no nude swimming.” Derek hung his clothes on a corner of it. Stiles hung his on the other.

They’d groped one another enough by that time that their body parts weren’t unfamiliar, but neither had seen the other completely naked till that moment.

Championship basketball star Derek had a finely muscled physique that made Stiles want to forget about swimming.

Though Stiles called his body “weird,” pale, covered in moles, shoulders too wide, Derek strongly disagreed.

Holding hands they plunged into the water, its chill shocking laughter from them both when they surfaced and, still laughing, kissed.

(2)

The nude swimming ban was a joke considering the water hole’s renown as a spot for anonymous hook-ups. But on that sunny afternoon there wasn’t a sign of another person.

That’s why they’d ditched school. True love broke rules (though they weren’t ready for outdoor sex just yet.)

Stiles had brought a “picnic basket,” a bag of candy and water bottles.

Derek pawed through it, looking for something other than peanut butter cups and Twizzlers.

His hair still dripping, Stiles reached into the bag, removing a granola bar, Derek’s preference.

Sugar was not the only reason their kisses tasted sweeter.

(3)

They hadn’t brought towels so they put on their underwear and sat on the ground.

Stiles stayed quiet, listening to rocks plop as Derek tossed them into the water like he was sinking baskets.

When he couldn’t find more rocks in reach Derek lay back and started dragging a finger over Stiles’s stomach.

“That tickles!” Stiles cried. “What’re you doing?”

“Making a sign,” Derek answered.

Pressing a little more firmly so it wouldn’t tickle, Derek continued the same movements.

When Stiles realized Derek was writing and what it said, “’I love you’!” he shouted.

Derek smiled. “I love you too.”

“We’ll sort the rest out tomorrow,” Stiles whispered, tugging off Derek’s shirt.

Though committed to helping Stiles research for his folklore class, Derek didn’t share Stiles’s staying-power. Come 4 a.m. he was drooping.

Despite not being werewolf-kind, Stiles’s sense of smell had sharpened, by association probably. Derek smelled warm, inviting.

But Stiles felt gravitationally drawn to his laptop. He didn’t need sleep. He was a college student!

“You too. Come to bed too,” Derek muttered, head nestled in his pillow.

“I just want to—”

“You too!” Derek rumbled louder, his arm extended, reaching blindly.

How could Stiles say no?

When Stiles plays he dashes. He leaps too. He leaps around Derek, on Derek. Then he dashes away.

Derek can’t find him. Stiles’s scent is everywhere because he dashes everywhere, runs everywhere, like a fool. There’s no scent trail.

Derek can’t hear Stiles’s heartbeat, not among the other heartbeats around him, above him in the trees, even underground.

It’s dangerous in the forest, and he’s just a fool fox!

Derek runs towards a whimper. Stiles’s whimper. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he’s—

Gotcha! Stiles leaps from some bushes before he dashes away.

Derek won’t lose Stile’s track again, not this time!

Still half-asleep Derek watched Stiles wield a slippery butter knife to lay three pats artfully atop a stack of pancakes. Over them he poured maple syrup till it dribbled down the sides. No less than six strips of bacon finished the presentation.

Derek wondered what inspired his boyfriend to such attentive plating when Stiles usually scarfed down food with no regard for culinary artistry, like a famished raccoon.

When the bountiful plate was set before him Derek’s surprised expression was answered by Stiles’s flashy smile.

“After what you accomplished last night,” Stiles grinned, not innocently, “you deserve a sweet reward.

Beacon Hills hadn’t had an earthquake since before he was born but Stiles felt the earth move after his dad said, “Son, let me introduce you to Deputy Hale.”

All he’d wanted was to bring his dad lunch, not discover his life’s new purpose, suddenly becoming how to date the jewel-eyed, black-haired new deputy.

“Son?” The Sheriff’s voice failed to pierce Stile’s reverie.

“Stiles.”

“What? Yeah! Hi… Deputy Hale. I’m…”

Sheriff John watched his son lapse into staring again. Not only that, his deputy was blushing as he stared at Stiles.

John sighed, very grateful he was already sitting down.

“We need a bigger bathtub,” Stiles grumbled, voice sleepy. “Let’s move some place that’s got one.”

Derek couldn’t imagine why.

The water was still tingly warm, the bubbles still plentiful, but Stiles felt confined, his drowsy brain fantasizing what else they could do in a tub, like he’d seen in porn.

That’s why.

“This is fine,” Derek muttered, hugging Stiles more snugly. Contact, skin to skin, being all he needed, nothing else mattered.

“But we could do stuff.”

“We’re doing stuff.”

“I mean, besides soak.”

“You can barely keep awake.”

“Mm,” was all Stiles managed to reply, promptly dozing off.