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Their next big bad is a harpy. Long talons, ugly as fuck, annoying as hell, and screeching as they finally manage to trap it under nets soaked with hemlock and something that Deaton gave them called Devil’s Weed. Yes, Stiles has already made all the jokes - no, her friends have not laughed because they have no sense of humor. Stiles has terrible friends.
Anyways, the shrieking vulture bat creature thing has been defeated and the rest of the pack are licking their wounds. The wolves are sporting a few gashes and broken bones that have already been set and healing. Lydia and Allison were luckier, having worked long-range offense with Allison’s arrows and Lydia’s screams.
Stiles, on the other hand… okay, technically, she was supposed to be on the sidelines, hurling balls of fire at the flapping harpy.
Here’s the issue: fire is one of the things that can kill harpies, which means said harpy had zeroed onto Stiles as the major threat. At some point in the skirmish, she’d dive bombed at Stiles, trying to eviscerate her with those long as fuck talons.
Luckily, Stiles jumped out of the way just in time. Unluckily, she’d been perched on top of a large boulder for a better advantage point to hurl fireballs, and she landed on the unforgiving forest floor with a pained yelp. Oh yeah, she'd injured something.
Scott had been there, swiping the harpy out of the air and bringing her down with a scream. It meant receiving a large gash across his flank, but Boyd and Erica had swooped in seconds later, pining the vulture down until Allison could shoot out the poisoned nets from a bazooka of all things. Chris owned the most badass gadgets, seriously.
So, they’re fine. They’re all alive, something Derek checks on as the group converges in the clearing. His shirt’s torn, three large rips across the chest where the harpy tried to gouge him. They’ve healed, but the blood has soaked through the fabric, creating a macabre look for the wolf.
“Everyone okay? Any serious injuries?” The pack answers with affirmative calls; they’re all okay. Stiles herself answers with a soft hum, which is her mistake. Normally, after a fight like this, she’s mouthing off, filling the relative silence of everyone checking they’re alive with her usual brand of snark and sarcasm.
The fact that she’s silent means Derek hones in on her like a dog after a bone (yes, she’s used that dog joke before - no, Derek still has not found it funny. Stiles’ brand of humor is wasted on these people).
“Stiles? Are you hurt?”
She is. That fall had not been kind to her. There’s no broken bones but her wrist is definitely sprained, her ribs are bruised for sure, she’s managed to get a few cuts and scrapes all over, and her Spark core is depleted as fuck. Fireballs take a lot out of her.
Despite being one of the magical members of the pack, Stiles is still human and she knows what’ll happen if she alludes to even being slightly injured. Scott’s going to give her puppy-dog eyes and ask her to sit out their next big bad, Derek is going to go all angry-brows and remind her that she’s so painfully human despite her Spark, and every single one of them is going to treat her with kiddie gloves.
And honestly, this time around, she’s lucky. Her injuries are barely injuries, easily healed. It won’t be quick, but Stiles will be fine. She knows that. Won’t stop the rest of the pack from worrying and mothering over her though.
It’s a good thing that after all these years, Stiles has learned the art of how to lie to a werewolf. The trick lies in telling the truth. For example: Stiles makes sure her face shows nothing as she tucks her arm close to her chest and says, “Just a few scrapes from running through the wild under bush. Nothing that won’t heal, Sourwolf.” See? Not a lie! All her injuries are going to heal.
Derek still watches her, like he doesn’t believe her, but his attention is drawn to the harpy, still pinned under the net, thrashing against the poison. Right, they still have to deal with that.
Erica offers the use of her lighter, Jackson pours the gasoline, and Peter digs a trench around the downed creature with his claws. They all stand clear as three seconds later, Derek flicks on the lighter and sets the damn thing on fire.
When the flames die down, and the harpy has been reduced to nothing more than ash, the group disperses. Derek’s pinched face tells Stiles that the Alpha would much rather the pack stay together, especially after a fight like this.
Unfortunately, the new Hale pack house is still under renovations, and the loft that they were previously using is out of commission thanks to a couple of burst pipes. It’ll take another few months for the house to be completed, built with more than enough rooms for all of them, but until then, it’s all of them separating, with Derek most likely dropping by to visit each of them tonight, to scent them, make sure they’re all okay.
Lydia and Jackson take the Porsche and are gone first, Allison and Scott escape in her Prius, Isaac, Boyd, and Erica have been holed up back in the good ol’ train depot with Derek (something Stiles hates because whyyyy), and Peter… well, no one ever knows where Peter comes and goes from. It’s better that way. As long as he shows up when needed, Stiles is happy.
In any case, with everyone heading out with quiet goodbyes, and a promise to meet up tomorrow, no one is there to see Stiles wince as she folds herself into her Jeep and makes the drive home one-handed.
At least… that’s what she thinks.
Ooo
In the clearing, Peter looks on quietly as Derek tries to pretend he’s not watching Stiles walk away. Silly nephew. He’s never been good at pretending.
And neither is Stiles. Peter saw the way she hit the floor, saw the careful way she held herself after. He knows what it means.
“You know,” Peter starts off casually, smirking lightly as Derek’s head whips back around, the tips of his ears pink, “Marina got too good at hiding from me too.”
The moon offers enough light to see the way Derek’s eyes widen, the shock evident in his expressive eyebrows. Not surprising, given that Peter tends not to bring up painful memories, especially those of his late wife. The only woman who could ever tame him, he thinks fondly and with no small amount of heartbreak, remembering blue eyes and innocent smiles.
He knows Derek feels his sorrow through the pack bonds, his Alpha letting out a small whine, and coming close enough to scent Peter, his hand a comforting weight on his uncle’s neck.
Peter leans into the comfort for just a moment before he straightens, huffing out a small breath. He inclines his head towards where the rest of the pack has disappeared. “Humans. They learn how to lie to us. For our sake, the silly things. They want us not to worry. But we do, and they’ll continue to try to lie. It would seem like our little Spark has figured it out too.”
He sees it when Derek understands, hears the little growl he lets out and sees the way his eyes bleed red. Peter squeezes his shoulder, giving him a gentle push towards the exit of the preserve. “Go check on your little human, nephew. I’ll check in on the rest of the pack. We’ll meet tomorrow.”
Derek hesitates for a second and Peter knows it's only because his Alpha instincts demand that he be the one to check in on the rest of the pack.
Peter also knows how to work around it. “Go check on your mate, nephew.”
He feels Derek jerk under his grip, and smirks again. “You think I didn’t know. Of course I do. Pretty sure even the pack knows. The only one who doesn’t is your little Spark. And she should know. Because you need to tell her.”
"That’s… it’s a lot to ask from her. To tell her what being an Alpha’s Mate means,” is Derek’s whispered response. “I can’t do that to Stiles. It wouldn’t be fair.”
He’s not wrong. Being an Alpha Mate comes with certain perks like being high enough in the hierarchy that they’d pass the First Beta (something Stiles would enjoy because the idea of having one over Peter? Catnip for the little Spark), but it also came with responsibilities. Like caring for your pack. Ensuring the health of the Alpha. Brokering treaties and alliances with the rest of the Supernatural world.
Things Stiles has been kinda doing for the last year since she came back from university, and has stepped in to basically, unofficially, become Derek's Emissary.
Peter wants to slap Derek upside the head but he doesn’t have time for the subsequent fight the action will garner. So, he settles for a quick shake and a firm look. “That’s her choice to make. You can’t take it away from her. Not telling her would be unfair. If she decides to reject you,” Peter ignores the whine his nephew gives, “then that’s her choice, but you have to give her that option in the first place.”
Derek exhales out slowly, lets the words land. Then he offers Peter a nod. “Pack meeting tomorrow.”
He’s gone before Peter can say yes, leaving the man alone in the clearing wearing a knowing smile.
Ahh… tomorrow’s meeting was going to be such fun.
Ooo
Her dad’s taken on an extra shift at the station to cover for Tara who’s gotten the flu, which means there’s no one at home when Stiles limps inside. She does send him a text to let him know she’s fine and that she’s only minorly injured. What? She is! Besides, no sense in making him worry about something he can’t fix.
It is nice that her dad now knows about the Supernatural; Stiles doesn't have to use lacrosse or her clumsiness as a way to explain away her injuries. Yes, it does mean that it’s a bigger target on her dad, but lying to him hadn’t made things better. Their relationship has become stronger now that she doesn’t have to lie to him every time a new supernatural baddie wanders into town. Plus, it’s been awesome to have the Sheriff’s department cover for them when well-meaning folks call about strange noises and flames on the preserve. Like today.
Her phone pings with a message from her dad. It’s a thumbs up (Allison has been teaching Noah how to use emojis with varied results; Stiles still hasn’t forgotten the eggplant debacle - blegh) and a promise to be home soon.
Stiles sends back a heart and then tosses her phone onto her desk and heads for the shower. Her clothes get dumped into a corner to be dealt with tomorrow and she steps under the spray. The hot water hits her skin and she hisses at the sting, before exhaling a sigh. Fuck, that feels good. The water pressure kinda hurts the bruises but for the most part, it feels heavenly against her sore muscles, the tension easing from her shoulders. She’s still in pain though and she’s definitely bruised something in her rib cage; it hurts to stretch her arms up even to shampoo and condition her hair. Which she has to do one handed because her wrist is sprained and out of commission. She nearly gets shampoo in her eye while rinsing out.
When she steps out, dripping water all over the floor (something her dad will definitely yell about), she heads for the mirror above the counter, wiping away at the steam. Even Stiles can’t stop the wince as she finally sees herself. Her body is a myriad of black and purple, interspersed with red scrapes and cuts. Fabulous - she’s relegated to jeans and long-sleeved shirts for a while then. Maybe an extra flannel. It’s a good thing the the weather’s finally getting cooler; no one’s going to question her extra layers.
Drying herself as best as she can, Stiles wraps the towel around herself carefully, bending down for the first-aid kit… that’s not there.
She groans; damnit, she’s left it in the kitchen, after her dad cut himself chopping onions and the kit downstairs had been out of plasters. Ugh, she didn’t want to be traipsing up and down the stairs when her body ached.
Pouting, Stiles tucks the towel around herself tighter, and makes her way back to her room in the dark. It’s a good thing the walk from her bathroom to the bedroom is a straight line. With her luck, she’s bound to injure herself somehow.
Case in point: Stiles hip-checks the door shut behind herself, and immediately regrets it because owww that’s the side with the largest bruise, covering her hip and ending somewhere under her right boob. There’s one on her calf too, and another that’s just beginning to darken on her back. There’s nothing to do for them but down a bunch of painkillers and ice it. Huh… maybe it’s a good thing she forgot the first-aid kit downstairs, the ice-packs are there too, and she needs to eat something to replenish her core. Also sleep. Fucking hell, does she need sleep. As long as Derek doesn’t call for a pack meeting early in the morning, like eight or something (he has before; the absolute animal), Stiles can get a few hours of rest, and then she just has to cover up for a while. Totally doable!
What’s not doable is holding a towel tight in one hand while also needing said hand to open her drawer for clothes. Dangit! Growling low, Stiles tries to awkwardly tuck a portion of the towel under her boobs, meaning that the fabric sags enough to expose her side boob. It’s fine, she just needs a few seconds to grab a pair of shorts and t-shirt.
She's just tugged open her drawer when she hears it. A low furious snarl behind her.
A very familiar low furious snarl behind her.
Oh shit.
Shit damn fuck cracker Jesus shit! She was hoping he’d have gone to the others first, giving her enough time to cover up up or at least be in bed!
Fingers curled in her towel, Stiles turns around to see Derek half in, half out her window, his gaze locked firmly on the bruise on her calf. And then zeroing on the one on her side. He looks pissed.
Affecting a grin, Stiles tries to pull up the towel closer to her body. “Mr. Hale, someone’s going to get the wrong idea what wi–”
“You said you weren't hurt. What the fuck, Stiles!” Derek snaps out, stepping in completely, his eyes red.
Stiles attempts a shrug, wincing as the movement tugs at a bruise. Derek notices, because of course he does. “I didn’t say that. I just said that it was nothing that wouldn’t heal. I’m going to be fine, big guy, it's just a few bruises–”
“Just a few– you look like you went a couple of rounds with a boulder!”
“Well… to be fair I did. Well, I jumped off a boulder onto a bunch of smaller boulders. The forest floor is not very sof–”
“Stiles.”
The joke dies on her lips at the agonized call of her name, at how even though her room is dark and the only light she has is a few rays of a crescent moon, she can see the way Derek looks at her with anguish, his eyebrows drawn together, fingers clenched tight by his side.
All at once, she wants to comfort him, reassure him that she’s okay. “Big Guy. Hey, come on, I'm fine. This is not even the worst I’ve gon–”
“Drop the towel, Stiles,” comes the order, low and angry.
Stiles blinks. What now?
Any other time, she would celebrate because she's had dreams that start off this way. Dreams where she’d make a joke about Derek finally getting with the program because Stiles has wanted him for so long. Dreams where she’d grin teasingly, ease herself onto the bed and let the towel fall open for Derek to ravish her. Dreams where he crawls over her, marking up her skin, taking her over and over again until Stiles can no longer remember her name.
Unfortunately, none of those dreams began with carrying bruises not given to her by Derek. Or even a pissed off Derek.
Which is why she hesitates. “Der–”
“Stiles. Don’t,” is all he says.
Stiles knows that if she says no, if for even one second Derek got the feeling that she was uncomfortable, he’d back off immediately. He wouldn’t force her to do something she didn’t want to.
Even now, despite wanting to see her, to check that she's okay, he doesn't come closer. He stays by the window, jaw working, finger flexing by his thighs, eyes red as he watches her silently.
She’d be wary of doing this with anyone else, anyone she wasn’t in a romantic relationship with.
But Derek? She trusts Derek.
So, Stiles swallows, closes her eyes, and lets the towel drop, the cloth pooling at her feet.
She hears the sharp inhale, hears the creak in her floorboards as he takes a step forward, knows that his eyes are cataloging every bruise, every scrape, every cut. Stiles keeps her eyes shut even as he comes closer, close enough that she can feel the heat emanating off him. But Derek doesn’t touch her, simply walking around in a slow circle to see the extent of her injuries.
Some part of Stiles thinks she should be freaking out. She’s naked. In front of Derek Hale. A veritable sex god! Her crush for… fuck knows how long.
But all she feels is immeasurable trust, knowing that Derek won’t touch her in a way she won’t want, knowing that she’s safe with him in this vulnerable state.
He’s her Alpha.
And then Derek asks, “Where’s your first-aid kit?”
Stiles startles because she hadn’t heard him move behind her. She opens her eyes, not turning around. “You don’t have to–”
“Stiles.”
He’s stubborn. As stubborn as she is, honestly.
Sighing softly, she says, “It’s in the kitchen.”
“Put your underwear on and sit on the bed. I’ll be back.”
And then he's gone. Stiles does as he asks (ordered really) because why fight it? He needs this, she knows. He needs to make sure she’s okay - Stiles can give him that.
By the time she tugs on a pair of boxer panties and gingerly sets herself over the unmade sheets, Derek's back, med-kit and two ice-packs in one hand, a granola bar and orange juice in the other. How he’s managed to balance all of that without dropping a thing, Stiles has no clue. Part of being a werewolf, she thinks.
An approving rumble sounds in his chest at the sight of her on the bed and he joins her, close enough that their knees brush against each other.
He quietly settles one ice-pack over her shoulder, and the other under her calf. Stiles hisses at the cold before her body gets used to the temperature. He hands over the granola bar and juice, cracking the seal for her, and Stiles takes it with a soft thank you.
“What all hurts?” Derek asks, keeping his eyes on the kit open by his thigh. As she lists them off, he pulls out what he needs: anti-septic wipes, plasters, bruise cream, a pack of painkiller pills, and a roll of linen wrap for her wrist. The lights are still off but it's not like Derek needs light to see. He works silently and efficiently in the dark.
The first swipe of the anti-septic against her cuts makes Stiles curse low, and she hears a soft apology before the pleasurable feel of wolf mojo takes over. Derek doesn't pull too much of her pain right away: it makes her too loopy if they do it quickly and Stiles hates it when her brain’s all addled. Still, he pulls enough that the sting she should feel from an open wound does not happen and Derek continues to work.
Once her cuts and scrapes have been cleaned and plastered, he starts to rub in the bruise cream over the lesions. The heat of his hands and the wolfy mojo makes the entire thing feel almost like a massage, and Stiles feels herself swaying gently even as she stays upright, swallowing the last of her snack. She knows part of it is most likely the adrenaline leaving her, her body recognizing that she’s safe, even in the presence of an apex predator.
Honestly, Stiles hasn't been scared of Derek for a long time. They’re worked together enough times that if Derek is shoving her against a wall, it’s probably to push her out of harm’s way or to protect her by covering her body with his own. The threats to her life are mere jokes now, muttered when Stiles teases him, poking at his ever impressive bicep about Derek being a pack mama. No, Stiles hasn't been afraid of Derek for a long time.
Being afraid for him though? That hasn't changed since she held his weight up in a pool of water for two hours. It didn’t change even when she came back from university, feeling more settled in her body and her confidence in being a Spark, and came home to see Derek also settled in his role as an Alpha. Because him being an Alpha means packs showing up to challenge him for territory, supernatural baddies wanting to draw on the power of the Nemeton, hunters who don’t follow the code.
As proud as Stiles is of Derek, for the Alpha that he’s become, one that is supportive and good to his betas, she will never stop being afraid for him. For all the people that want to hurt him. For all the people that have hurt him.
There’s a touch at her elbow and Stiles blinks to see Derek closing the kit with a snap. While her mind has wandered, he's worked over her contusions with the cream, wrapped her wrist, and pulled enough of her pain that she barely feels her injuries, and thinks she doesn’t need the painkillers. Derek still holds two out for her though, a glass of water in his other hand, his silence brooking no argument.
As she swallows down the pills, Derek throws away her trash, and manages to scrounge up clothes for her, a pair of shorts and a sleep shirt that’s soft and worn from the wash. He keeps his eyes somewhere near her shoulders as he helps her into the shorts, then tugs the shirt over her head. Only when she’s dressed does he scent her, leaning in to rub his stubbled cheek over her neck, his hands running warm and gentle over her arms and wrists.
She lets it happen, swallowing down her moan and letting out just the softest sigh because yeah, Derek needed this… but so did Stiles.
There's a moment where he nearly runs a hand over her hair, the wet brown strands escaping from the bun she’d thrown it into after her shower, but Derek stops himself. Inhaling softly, he motions to the bed. “Get under the covers, Stiles.”
She does so, watching quietly as he tucks the sheets around her with care, rearranging the ice packs over the bruises. The lines around his eyes are still tight though. He's still keyed up, Stiles realizes. His shoulders are tense, bunched around his ears, eyes flickering between beautiful Alpha red and gorgeous human green.
It’s at that moment that Stiles also realizes that Derek’s still in the clothes from the clearing. His shirt is barely hanging onto him, his jeans crusted with blood and dirt. The bags under his eyes look more pronounced than ever, and there’s dried blood under his fingernails. He hadn’t even gone to the depot to change… he’d come right to her.
It makes her heart trip over, a stutter that Derek very clearly hears and he turns concerned eyes onto her, searching her face for distress. “What? What hurts?”
She doesn’t tell him she’s fine: one, because she knows he won't believe it, and two, because that’s not what he needs to hear right now.
Instead, Stiles reaches out to catch his hand in hers, running her thumb over his wrist, scenting him back. “Go shower. Dad’s got some stuff you can borrow. I did laundry yesterday; it’s still in the dryer. Leave your stuff with mine in the bathroom.”
When Derek hesitates, Stiles squeezes his fingers with a small smile. “Go, Worrywolf. I'm not going anywhere and you look like you need it.”
Another moment of hesitation and then Derek nods, a single jerky movement before he’s gone, his toed off boots left near her door. Stiles hears him moving about, hears the water in her shower start up, and tells herself not to think about the fact that Derek Hale is in her shower. Naked. Because she's honestly too tired and too in pain (thank fuck he made her take the painkillers) for that train of thought right now.
She must have dozed off at some point, exhaustion having pulled her under for a bit because when she opens her eyes, Derek's back, draping his towel and hers from the floor over her desk chair.
She blinks, shifting to get a better look at him. Clad in a pair of her dad’s sweats and an old Beacon Hills High t-shirt, Derek looks… soft. It’s the only word she can think of right now. Barefoot, stripped of the leather and the scowl that marks him as dangerous, Derek looks soft and almost lost as he stands in the middle of her room, damp hair falling over his eyes.
Without a word, Stiles moves to make space for him on the bed, hissing softly as her body protests the jostling. When Derek still stands there, Stiles rolls her eyes, and pats the open spot next to her. “Come on, Sillywolf. We both need rest and I'm too tired to do anything nefarious to you tonight. Besides, you saw me naked and nothing happened. My virtue will remain intact. Get in.”
It seems to be enough for the wolf because he gets in, tucking the sheets around her as Stiles settles back on her pillow. Derek’s taken the side closest to the door, hemming her between his body and the wall. It’s kind of nice, being surrounded like this. Almost comforting, Stiles thinks. She’s on her side, the one that doesn’t have the large as fuck bruise, which means she’s facing Derek who’s still propped against the headboard, his hands clasped together in his sheet covered lap.
“Hey,” she whispers out, reaching out to gently cover his forearm, “It’s okay. The pack’s okay. We’re a bit banged up but we’re all alive and we did good. You did good, Alpha.”
His eyes flash red and his jaw clenches. He doesn't say anything but he also doesn’t shrug Stiles’ touch away so she leaves her hand where it is and closes her eyes, hoping that little bit of contact can soothe the man.
Three seconds later, her eyes snap open.
Because Derek has taken his arm out from under hers. Not to pull away. But to grip her fingers gently in his own, tugging it up to his lips. Even as she watches, breath stuttering in her chest, Derek kisses the points of her fingers, lips warm as he trails them over her knuckles and then over her wrapped wrist. Lines of black trail down his arms at the same time; he’s pulling her pain again.
“Derek,” Stiles’ voice is a hoarse murmur, and Derek matches it.
“You can't do this again, Stiles. You can't lie to me.”
“Derek–” she tries again, wanting to apologize, wanting to say she won’t do it again but Derek is suddenly pulling her close, an arm under her shoulders as he brings her close to his chest.
“Please, Stiles. Not you. Don’t… don’t hide how hurt you are from me. I know you can take care of yourself and I know you might be vulnerable but you’re not weak. But the thought of you hurt, in pain… even a little– I can’t– you– you’re–”
“Pack, I know. I’m sor–”
“You’re mine, Stiles. My mate,” Derek rasps out, sounding wrecked and broken, and the guilt and shock that hits her in equal measure turns Stiles breathless.
Mate.
She’s his mate.
She’s his mate? What? Since when? How long had he known? Why wait so long to tell her? Why tell her now?
It makes no sense but even so… Stiles realizes it does not matter. Because even through the bombshell of that revelation and the questions she has, she knows it's true. The pack bond between them thrums with something else now, something potent and solid. Something good.
There’s so many questions to be asked, but for now, the only thing she can do is clutch onto him, shifting so that she can push her face into his chest, breathing in the scent of her body wash, the clean scent of linen, and something unerringly Derek.
“Never again, okay Stiles? Never–” Derek pleads with her, and Stiles is helpless to do nothing else but comply, nodding against him.
“I promise, Derek, okay? I promise. Never again.”
Words have always been Stiles' choice of weapon, her way of seeing the world. But Derek has always been a man of action. For him, words can be lies - as evidenced by what Stiles did earlier this evening. Words have been used to hurt him before. But actions hold truth.
So, Stiles acts. She pushes herself up, ignoring the aches in her body to rise up, curl a palm into the curve of Derek’s jaw, tugging his face towards hers. And then she presses her lips gently against his.
It’s barely a kiss, just a brush of lips, chaste and fleeting. But Derek melts against her like it's more. And he turns it into more.
His hands take hold of her waist, still gentle, still careful, even as he deepens the kiss, turning it into something heady and breathless. He nips at her, soothing the sting with his tongue, licks into her mouth until she's panting, whining with the need for more. He tugs her onto his lap, her knees bracketing a thigh, pulling her close until there’s no way to tell where one begins and where one ends.
And fuck, Stiles doesn’t want this to end. How long has she dreamed of this? Hoped for this? How long has she dreamed of Derek kissing her the way he does now, mapping the moles along her jaw with his tongue? How long has she wanted the feel of his hands against her, holding her like she’s something precious, something to be revered? How long has she wanted him, the way he wants her?
Stiles doesn’t want this to end… but it has to. Because neither of them are in the right mind-state for this right now.
Which is why she pulls back, gasping a little as Derek loses her lips but goes for her neck, lips sucking until he’s marked her skin. She can feel his hardness against her thigh, feels the way he ruts against her, knows he can smell the arousal wetting her panties, and fuck, she wants. But she can’t. They can’t. She moans a little, nails curling over his shoulders even as she pants out his name.
“Der–oh fuc– Derek, come on. Look at– hey, come on, we can’t."
To his credit, he stops right away, pulling back from her with flashing eyes, nostrils flared, and a mouthful of fangs. That’s when Stiles realizes that Derek's got his claws out, but she hadn’t once felt them against her skin. Even having lost control, he’s still so careful with her. Which… aww… but also, fuck, she cannot wait for him to lose his control with her.
But that’s a thought for next time, because Derek’s eyes carry the hurt of rejection. Because this- her silly stupid Alpha thinks that Stiles is stopping him because she does not want him. God, Stiles is in love with an absolute walnut.
It's why she leans in to peck at his nose, at his lips, thumbs smoothing over where his eyebrows would be.
“Hey, Dummywolf. I'm not saying I don't want this. I do. Fuck, you can smell how much I do. But we can't do this tonight. I'm still all kinds of injured,” An unhappy rumble rolls over her, something that she soothes with a hand through his hair and a kiss to his cheek, “and you need rest too. This? This will still be there tomorrow. I will still be here tomorrow. Promise.”
She hopes he hears the truth of her words, in the steadiness of her heartbeat, and he must because Derek nods, his face going back to human, fangs disappearing into his mouth, and claws gone. He helps Stiles move so that she's off his thigh and curled close to him, her arm over his waist.
They’re silent for a moment, still breathing heavily, still trying to come down from… that, and then Derek asks, soft and unsure, “Are you upset? That I didn’t tell you before?”
Stiles hums, moving her arm so that her hand is directly over Derek’s heart, feeling the skip in his heartbeat. “No… no, not upset. Surprised, yes. Because I didn’t think you wanted me that way.”
Derek lets out a low laugh. “I have always wanted you that way. Since the day I saw two stupid sixteen year olds trespass into my territory looking for an inhaler. I just… I knew I couldn’t have you. And later, after everything, I didn’t want to put that sort of pressure on you. Being an Alpha’s Mate… it’s a lot, Stiles.”
She’s sure it is. She’s sure that tomorrow she might panic and have a slight anxiety attack. She’s sure that tomorrow things are not going to be as easy as it feels right now. She’s sure that tomorrow, at the pack meeting Derek is sure to hold (hopefully not at ass o’clock in the morning), they'll talk about the lines crossed, the roles that have changed, the obstacles they’ll have to face.
But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tomorrow they can deal with their worries, with Peter’s knowing face as they walk into the meeting hand in hand. Tomorrow, they’ll deal with the fact that she hears her dad come in, no doubt raising an eye at the sight of his daughter wrapped securely in a werewolf’s arms. Tomorrow, they’ll deal with what this means for them.
For tonight, Stiles turns her head to press a kiss to Derek’s chest, her palm tapping out a soothing rhythm over his heart. “You’ll be with me though, right? Through all of it?”
Derek doesn’t even hesitate, his lips warm and sure against her temple. “Always.”
“Then that’s good enough for me.”
Closing her eyes, Stiles lets herself remember that she’s warm and safe in the cradle of her Alpha’s arms, in her mate’s arms. She’s protected. She’s cared for. She’s loved.
And Stiles sleeps.
Ooo